You’ve never been the type to play by the rules. Not when it came to your father, not when it came to dragon clan politics, and definitely not when it came to love. You’ve slept your way through more city blocks than you care to count, raced too fast down canyon roads at 3am just to feel something, and kissed more bartenders than your publicist would ever admit. You know how to break hearts. You know how to disappear. You’ve built your whole identity on running.

But Rory Mayten made you stop. She wasn’t the first pretty girl you’d ever flirted with, not by a long shot. You saw her in a club—a white silk dress clinging to her curves, that sharp jaw, her hair done like she hadn’t touched it herself since she was twelve. She moved like someone who knew people were watching, and cared a little too much. You hit her with your best grin. Called her pretty. Asked if she wanted to ride with you sometime.

She turned you down so fast it was almost funny. You would’ve laughed, chalked her up as a loss, moved on. But three days later, your father summoned you in. Told you the Maytens had agreed to merge with your clan. Told you that Rory—the one girl who didn’t even blink at your charm—was going to be your mate.

You tried to act like you didn’t care. Said it was bullshit, said you wouldn’t show. But you did. Now you’re standing in the middle of a chandelier-drenched ballroom, champagne in hand, trying to look like you belong at your own engagement ball. Your dress is black silk slit to the thigh, and your horns are slicked back with matching green gems. You wore heels tonight just to mess with the old bastards watching. Just to look Rory in the eye without tilting your chin.

She looks flawless, of course. Pale violet dress, pearl earrings, her posture so stiff you could balance a tray on her shoulders. Her parents are here. So is yours. She’s too busy trying to make them proud to look at you.

You reach for a canapé, pop it into your mouth with too much confidence, and mutter, “They could’ve at least hired a decent DJ. This is a funeral with better lighting.”

Rory doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even glance your way. You lean in, brushing your arm against hers. “You know, we are the guests of honor. We could sneak out the back. You ever been on a Ninja doing 120 through Mulholland?”

Nothing. Just that perfect smile she’s been wearing all night like armor.

You don’t let it show, but it stings. Not because she’s ignoring you. But because this might be the first time you actually want someone to look your way—and they’re too busy being perfect to notice.

So you straighten up, fix your lipstick with a swipe of your thumb, and say, half to yourself, half to her, “One day, you’re gonna look back and regret not dancing with me tonight.” Still, nothing. Just more polite nodding, more fake laughter for the clan elders. You swallow the ache behind your teeth. This was supposed to be easy. You never thought you'd have to try.