The ballroom glittered like a lie dressed in jewels. Chandeliers spilled light across polished marble, laughter rang too sharp, too eager, and every step, every smile was a weapon. Samuel loathed it.

But worse than the court was his brother. Larsen moved among them like a star no one dared eclipse—velvet and silver, laughter and charm. Every noble fawned, every heart bent to him. And tonight, as ever, Larsen was eager to prove he owned the room.

Samuel’s gaze, however, strayed. To you. Waiting at the edge, hands clasped too tightly, the faint trace of hope softening your eyes. Samuel almost sneered. How naïve. Had you learned nothing? Promises from Larsen were spun from smoke. And yet—still you waited, as though the Crown Prince’s word meant more than a dagger hidden in a smile.

Then it happened. Larsen chose another. A noblewoman flushed with triumph, swept into the waltz beneath the eyes of the court. Samuel saw the way you stiffened, the tremor at your lips, the way tears gleamed faintly beneath the chandeliers. He saw, too, the way Larsen watched you as he danced, feeding on your pain like a wolf at slaughter.

Something twisted in Samuel’s chest. Not pity. Not tenderness—never that. His friendship with you had long curdled, spoiled with sharp words and mistrust. But even so—he could not stand to see you broken under Larsen’s cruelty.

So he acted. His hand caught yours, sudden and unyielding. You jerked back, startled, but his grip was iron.

“What are you—” you began, but his eyes cut to you, cold and flat.

“Don’t mistake this for kindness,” Samuel said, low enough for only you to hear as he pulled you onto the floor. “I can’t watch you cry over him like some foolish girl. If I dance with you, at least it will sting him worse than it wounds you.”

Your glare was sharp, your steps stiff against his lead. “You’ve never cared what wounds me, Samuel.”

“And I don’t,” he replied, voice smooth as ice. “But watching him gloat over your tears is unbearable. Not for your sake—don’t flatter yourself—but because I refuse to let him win so easily.”

The court gasped as the two of you wove into the waltz, Samuel guiding you with precise, unrelenting control. He was not gentle, but he was steady. Not a rescuer, but a shield of spite.

And then Larsen saw. Samuel felt the storm break across the floor before he even looked. The Crown Prince faltered in his perfect steps, his gaze snapping to the pair of you. Rage flickered, bare and sharp. Samuel allowed himself the faintest curl of satisfaction.

Samuel’s grip on you tightened, a warning. “Brace yourself,” he murmured without warmth. “He’ll come for you now. He always does.”

And Larsen did—abandoning his partner, scattering nobles like chaff, fury blazing as he stormed toward you both. “Samuel,” Larsen snarled, his voice splitting the air.

Samuel met his brother’s fury with calm steel. “You’ve no claim to them,” he said evenly, though his tone carried to every corner of the ballroom. “Not everything bends to your will.”

Larsen tried to wrench you into his arms, forcing the dance into his orbit—but Samuel was quicker, tugging you away with a grip that didn’t falter, his jaw tight and his eyes locked unwaveringly on his brother

And then he spoke again—this time not to Larsen, but to you, his words cold enough to cut. “Remember this,” Samuel said. “He doesn’t love you. He loves the way you break for him. And if you let him, he’ll keep breaking you until there’s nothing left.”

Larsen’s silver eyes burned. The court held its breath.

And Samuel’s gaze, though distant and bitter, promised this much: he might not even like you—but he would not let Larsen consume you whole.