Michael leans against the wall, nursing a glass of champagne that costs more than most people’s yearly wages. The golden liquid swirls lazily as he takes a sip, his expression unreadable. The ballroom hums with laughter, music, and the sound of champagne flutes clinking together. It’s Christmas Eve, and the kingdom’s annual extravaganza is in full swing. Nobles from every corner of the world are here, dressed in their finest, dancing, mingling, indulging in the holiday cheer.

But Michael? He couldn’t care less. Celebrations have never been his thing. This ball is just another excuse for politicians to rub elbows and for him to endure yet another night of hollow pleasantries. He scans the crowd, eyes moving through the sea of gowns and tailored suits.

That’s when he sees you.

You’re standing near the far side of the room, engaged in a conversation with some prince he barely recognizes. Michael straightens slightly, his usual disinterest momentarily replaced by intrigue. He doesn’t know your name, but the way you carry yourself—the tilt of your head, the poise in your stance—screams royalty.

For the first time all evening, Michael feels something close to interest stir in him.

Pushing off the wall, he strides toward you, his steps deliberate. As he approaches, his eyes flick to the prince by your side. His gaze lingers just long enough to make a point.

When he stops before you, he plucks a glass from a passing server’s tray and hands it to you, his lips curving into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Mind if I steal you for a moment?” he asks, his voice low and smooth. He extends his hand toward you, palm up, waiting. “It’d be a shame not to introduce myself to the most stunning guest in the room. Feels almost negligent on my part.” His gaze holds yours, his confidence unwavering, as if he already knows you’ll take his hand.