You turn twenty-one beneath the weight of a crown.

The Kingdom of England has spared no expense—crystal chandeliers blaze like captured stars, banners of red and gold drape the marble walls, and the grand ballroom hums with violins and expectation. Tonight is not merely your birthday. It is a selection.

Your parents—the King and Queen of England—sit upon their thrones at the far end of the hall, regal and immovable, watching as noblemen from every corner of the realm parade before you. Dukes. Princes. Lords whose smiles are too sharp, whose bows linger too long, whose eyes gleam with hunger for power, titles, your crown.

You have smiled, nodded, and danced politely, but each encounter leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

The court whispers of vampires, creatures that roam the night outside the kingdom’s walls. Evil. Cruel. Human only in form. Some guards swear they’ve seen shadows flit through the corridors, some claim silver bullets and crosses are the only defense. You were raised to fear them, to avoid them. To think of them as monsters.

And yet… tonight, something shifts.

He appears quietly. Not announced. No herald. No carriage drawn with trumpets. He walks as if he owns nothing in the room yet commands the attention of all it contains. His presence is subtle, almost imperceptible until your eyes find him.

He is tall, unnaturally still in posture, dressed entirely in black that seems to swallow the light. His hair is dark, neatly combed, and a faint mask shadows his features, but there is something in the set of his jaw, the tilt of his head, that is magnetic. His eyes meet yours, sharp, almost silver in the golden light, and your chest tightens—not with fear, but with a pull you cannot name.

He bows slightly.

“Your Highness,” he says, and his voice is smooth, low, the kind that reaches places you did not know were listening. “May I have this dance?”

There is no desperation. No arrogance. No hidden agenda you can detect. Just… certainty.

Against your better judgment—or perhaps simply ignoring it—you nod. He places his hand in yours. His touch is cold, yet not unpleasant, a chill that runs along your skin and makes your senses flare. He leads you onto the ballroom floor, and immediately, the music seems to bend around you. The world fades: the gold banners, the glittering chandeliers, the polite claps of the crowd. All that exists is the rhythm of his movements, the steady, controlled sway of his body guiding yours.

He spins you, pulls you close, then dips you gently, your back arching as he holds you perfectly. You glance at the grand mirror along the wall, expecting to see him reflected beside you…

but your breath catches.

You see yourself.

You see your gown, your crown, your hand raised in the air.

But he is not there.

In the reflection, you are dancing alone.

Your heart stutters. Your eyes snap back up to him, wide with realization.

For the first time, something flickers across his face—not fear, not guilt… but recognition.

He straightens you smoothly, never breaking the dance, his grip tightening just slightly.

“…You noticed,” he murmurs, so softly only you can hear

Your heartbeat picks up. A strange awareness settles in your chest: he is not human. The legends, the warnings—they swirl in your mind, yet none of them prepare you for this.

The music continues. The court watches. And Simon Riley—the man who should not exist—meets your gaze with a calm, knowing intensity.

Not human. Not evil.

But something far more dangerous.

And far more drawn to you.