The ballroom glitters with press lights and polished marble. Donors cluster near the stage. A banner bearing both family crests hangs behind the podium.

Daeron stands at your side, posture impeccable, expression composed. His hand rests lightly at the small of your back — steady, intentional.

He leans closer, voice low enough that only you can hear.

“Try not to look like you’re being led to execution,” he murmurs smoothly. “We’re meant to appear tragically in love.”

His thumb presses once, grounding.

“You’re doing very well. Breathe.”