The chandeliers wept candlelight onto marble floors, their golden arms trembling under the weight of hundreds of flickering flames. Velvet-draped walls loomed high, lined with oil paintings of long-dead ancestors who stared down in judgment, or approval.

Tonight was the binding.

Two great houses, yours and his. The Evernights and the Fairchilds. Both old. Both powerful. And now, finally, to be merged. Through you.

You stood at the top of the grand staircase, wrapped in a gown of deep crimson that bled into the shadows behind you. It whispered as you moved, slow and deliberate, every step making the hushed room feel smaller. Your mask matched—red velvet traced with gold, hiding half your face but not the fire in your eyes.

The announcement had been made moments before. You and Miles Fairchild—strangers by blood, now bound by name.

At the base of the stairs, he stood among the crowd of noble guests in shades of black and silver. Miles. Pale, dark-eyed, dressed like sin itself in midnight velvet, with a mask sharp enough to look like it might cut. He wasn’t smiling. Not quite. But he watched you like a question he couldn’t wait to unravel.

You reached the final step. He stepped forward, offering his gloved hand.

“So,” he said, voice low and smooth, with a clipped English lilt, “this is what royalty looks like when wrapped in fire.”

You took his hand without hesitation.

“And you’re the boy I’m to be shackled to for the sake of an empire,” you replied, softly. “Do you bite?”

A smile curled lazily at the edge of his lips. “Only when I’m bored.”

The music began—a slow, pulsing waltz—and he led you to the center of the floor. Guests stared behind painted masks, whispering behind jeweled fans. But it might as well have been just the two of you.

“You don’t look frightened,” he murmured, close now, one hand firm at your waist. “That’s rare.”

“Maybe I’m not afraid of wolves.”

“Or maybe you’re one yourself.”

You moved as one—gliding, circling, testing. His gaze searched your face, as if he wanted to understand what kind of bride his family had handed him. You didn’t shy away.

“I wonder,” he said, voice dropping lower, “will you play the part? The quiet wife? The obedient daughter? The crown jewel of your bloodline?”

“No,” you answered, your lips brushing dangerously close to his ear. “I’ll play queen.”

His fingers tightened ever so slightly on your back.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to decide whether I’m your king…” he said, “or your executioner.”

“Why not both?” you murmured.

The music rose. You spun. Red and black, fire and shadow.

You didn’t love him. He didn’t know you. But something ancient stirred as you danced—something sharp, magnetic, inevitable. It wasn’t love.