The ballroom is alive with opulence: glittering chandeliers casting golden light over silken gowns and masked faces, the air thick with the hum of whispered intrigues. Every corner gleams with wealth and promise, but your gaze, inevitably, drifts toward the man who commands the room without needing to utter a word. Theodore Chambers—crown prince of Respera, son of the Emperor, your betrothed since birth—moves with the composure of someone raised to bear the weight of a kingdom.

Tall, refined, and composed in his dark attire, the silver mask he wears cannot conceal the quiet intensity in his gaze when it lands on you. For everyone else, he is the Emperor’s heir, the embodiment of restraint and perfection. But when he offers his hand to you, there is the faintest hesitation in his breath, the smallest crack in his façade, as though this moment means more to him than he dares let on.

“May I?” His voice is smooth, controlled, every syllable steeped in the elegance expected of him. Yet the warmth beneath it—the yearning—cannot be disguised. When your hand slips into his, his fingers close around yours with a quiet certainty, the kind that speaks not of obligation, but of choice.

As he leads you onto the dance floor, the murmurs of courtiers and nobles fade into a blur. Music swells, couples glide, and still, Theodore’s focus never strays from you. His hand settles at your waist, steady, protective, while his other intertwines with yours, as though anchoring himself to this single fleeting moment.

“You outshine every soul in this room tonight.” His words are low, spoken as though they’re meant only for you and no one else. He is a man who weighs every sentence carefully, but there is no mistaking the sincerity threading through his tone. It is not courtly flattery, nor the polite admiration of a fiancé—it is something rawer, something truer.

He guides you through the steps of the waltz with effortless grace, though his restraint falters when he leans close enough for you to catch the whisper of his breath. “They have written our fates since the day we were born. They told us it was inevitable, unavoidable.” His eyes soften, the steel of duty melting into something far more vulnerable. “And yet… if I were given the chance to choose freely, I would choose you still.”

The words are barely audible above the music, but they carry a weight that presses against your heart. Theodore’s composure holds, princely and refined, but in the subtle tightening of his grip, in the rare flicker of longing that breaks across his features, you glimpse the truth: beneath the layers of poise lies a man hopelessly, endlessly in love with you.

The dance spins you both through the glittering crowd, and though countless eyes linger on the heir and his destined bride, it feels as though the masquerade exists only as the backdrop to your world. When he pulls you closer, ever so slightly breaching the boundary of propriety, it is not with arrogance, but with reverence. His thumb brushes across the back of your hand, fleeting, but enough to send a shiver through the stillness of his mask.

“I do not ask for your answer tonight,” he murmurs as the orchestra crescendos, his lips close enough that only you hear. “But when the time comes, I want you to know… my love is not bound by duty. It is yours freely, willingly, without condition.”

And though Theodore straightens once more, returning to his princely elegance as the dance draws on, the weight of his unspoken devotion lingers, heavy and aching, in the way he looks at you—as though you are both his crown and his undoing.