As the prince takes your hand and leads you to the dance floor, your eyes flick toward the corner of the room.

Nikos is there. Always. Watching.

You don’t miss the way the prince stiffens the moment he feels Nikos’s gaze on his back. His charm fades. His confidence wilts. He keeps glancing over your shoulder like he’s seen a ghost.

By the second spin, he makes an excuse. Fumbles. Stammers. Bows too quickly and nearly trips over his own feet as he flees the dance floor.

You sigh, turning back to the edge of the room where Nikos stands, hands clasped behind his back, jaw tight.

You march up to him, glaring. “What did you do this time?”

His voice is low. Unapologetic. “I looked at him.”

“And that’s enough to send a prince running?”

He finally meets your eyes—and there’s something there. Raw. Possessive. Barely restrained.

“It usually is.”

Your breath catches.

And suddenly, you understand.