AUTHOR'S POV
Since King Edmund and Queen Emma's wedding, palace life seemed to return to normal in the public eye. But behind marble walls and crystal lights, a thin current of tension quietly flowed. Zara decided to transfer universities—straight to the same campus as Elle. In the corridors, they exchanged the bare minimum of greetings, maintaining the "sweet princesses" image for the public. Meanwhile, light gossip spread through the media: two princesses under one roof—are they truly close, or only playing nice?
That night, the palace corridors were quiet. A clock chimed softly; the air held the lingering scent of flowers from the garden. Elle made her way to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a jar of Oreo ice cream. She sat at the end of the long table, letting her thoughts dissolve into the cold sweetness.
Suddenly, arms wrapped her from behind.
"Gosh, Dad! You scared me," Elle yelped, heart pounding.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to," King Edmund said, taking the seat beside her. "What are you doing?"
"Eating ice cream. And you? What are you doing here?" Elle scooped another bite, pretending not to care.
"The same as you," Edmund replied, grabbing the jar and—with no shame—scooping a generous portion.
"Give it back to me, Dad," Elle protested, flashing the classic daughterly glare.
Edmund chuckled, set the jar down, then cleared his throat. "I want to dance with you, Elle. Tomorrow is my 50th birthday gala. There will be a father–daughter dance. You remember, don't you?"
He played "Daddy's Angel" on his phone. The first notes floated out—gentle, familiar. Elle looked at her father; longing crept in, tangled with a stubborn uncertainty. At last, she stood, took Edmund's hand, and began to move. They danced in the palace kitchen—no gowns, no chandeliers—just cool tiles and a warm, dim light. Simple. Tender.
"So this dance is still mine tomorrow?" Elle asked softly.
"Sure, honey." Edmund smiled. "Always."
"I thought… maybe tomorrow that right would belong to Zara."
Edmund shook his head. "How could I be that cruel? You are my own flesh and blood."
Elle bit her lip. A feeling she couldn't shake fluttered inside her, throwing off her heartbeat. "Dad… if something bad happens tomorrow, would you save the father–daughter dance for me?"
"Of course," Edmund replied firmly. "You have my word."
Elle nodded. They danced until the song ended, then laughed softly at how ridiculous it was to waltz in the kitchen at midnight. But deep down, the foreboding remained.
The night of King Edmund's golden jubilee arrived. The palace shone like a second sun. The Grand Ballroom opened wide; a red carpet stretched forward; the orchestra filled the air with a grand overture. Guests poured in from many nations; heralds sounded their trumpets, announcing the king's entrance.
King Edmund entered with Queen Emma—elegant, composed, as if anything he touched turned to legend. Emma was stunning in a white long-sleeved dress with gold accents, her hair in a flawless French roll. Behind them, Princess Elle and Princess Zara followed, each in white-and-gold gowns with flower-braid updos. Two twin stars—beautiful, but each with a different light.
ELLE'S POV
"Princess, you look stunning," said Prince Gerald, standing before me with that effortless smile.
"Thank you. You look charming, as always," I replied, keeping it polite.
"Hey, Princess. You look gorgeous." This time it was Eric—his voice flat, but intense.
"Hi, Prince Eric. Thank you," I answered briefly. I felt Gerald's gaze flick for a second, then smooth back to neutral. No cracks in the façade tonight—at least not on the main ballroom floor.
"So, it looks like you don't have a partner for the dance. Will you dance with me?" Eric offered his hand.
I hesitated for a heartbeat. Refusing in front of Gerald would look dramatic. "Yes," I said at last, suppressing the sudden nerves.
Eric led me onto the floor. The orchestra shifted to a waltz. We turned slowly; my gown flared with each step, satin whispering through the air. As the music dipped, Eric's hand settled at my waist, his fingers steady, his breathing even. I looped my arms around his neck; our distance was too close for "just friends."
"Elle, I want to propose to you," he said suddenly—no preamble, no warning.
I froze. "It's too soon. We've only just started over, and… not as lovers, Rick. I want to fix our friendship first."
"I know, but I need to make sure you're mine."
"Please," I cut in gently, removing my hands from his neck. "I need to visit the powder room."
I stepped away, breathing carefully. The music swelled again; applause washed over the floor. I slipped into the west corridor, down a few steps to the powder room. In the mirror, I touched up my makeup, forcing my thoughts to level. One breath… two… three.
When I stepped back into the corridor, a man in a black tuxedo—someone I didn't recognize—appeared from the shadow of a pillar. Without a word, he shoved my shoulder.
"Whoa—hey! Who are you? What are you doing?!" I cried, losing my balance. My back slammed against the iron door of a storage room. From outside, he pressed the handle—click. Locked.
"Hey!! Open the door!!" My knocking bounced off the narrow walls. Far away, faintly, I heard a bell—the signal that the father–daughter dance was about to begin.
"Someone out there, please open up! Help!" My voice went hoarse. I kicked the door once, twice—useless. The smell of old wood and resin stung; the thin air tightened around my lungs.
AUTHOR'S POV
In the ballroom, Lady Rosela—Elle's grandmother—searched for her granddaughter. Her usually serene face was drawn with worry.
"Where is Elle?" she whispered to Edmund.
"I don't see her either," the king replied, a worried crease forming on his brow.
"It's almost time for the father–daughter dance."
Edmund nodded. "I'll have the guards look for her."
He glanced around: where was Christian? Elle's personal guard was never far. Strangely, he, too, was nowhere in sight. Edmund finally ordered several guards to sweep the palace.
Five minutes passed—nothing. The orchestra held the intro; guests murmured. Queen Emma approached then, her tone sweet, but sharp like a razor tucked among roses.
"Honey, I don't mean to be rude. But it isn't good to keep the guests waiting. What if Zara takes Elle's place? She is family too, after all."
Edmund drew a breath. "No. I promised Elle."
Another ten minutes crawled by. Rumors began to ripple like an undercurrent.
"See? The guests are waiting," Emma pressed, her smile intact.
Edmund closed his eyes for a moment. I'm sorry, honey. "Very well," he said softly.
The orchestra lifted the melody of "Daddy's Angel." Zara stepped to the center, her gown glittering. Guests applauded politely, cameras gaped hungrily. But elsewhere in the palace, a girl pounded against a locked iron door.
ELLE'S POV
The first notes of "Daddy's Angel" seeped through the door. It felt like gravity tore me down. My knees weakened; the air turned cold—cold that bit straight to the bone.
I leaned against the door and stared at the bare ceiling of the cramped room. "Dad…" My voice broke, barely more than a breath. Tears slid warm down my cheeks, then disappeared at my chin.
Footsteps outside. The handle turned, the lock rattled. The door swung open, corridor light flooding my face.
"Princess—are you okay? I'm sorry I was too late." Christian rushed in, breathing hard.
I didn't answer. I just cried—quietly, but hard. "I want to go back to my room," I said, trying to stand. My legs trembled.
Christian faltered, then, without another word, lifted me—bridal style. I folded against his shoulder, letting my tears soak his jacket. His strides were quick yet careful, carrying me through corridors still filled with waltz and applause. Each clap felt like a slap: that dance—my promise—had been stolen.
At my doorway, Christian caught the handle and opened it. "Would you like me to lock the door, Princess?"
I nodded. "Lock it, please."
He set me down at the bedside. I didn't let go of his shoulder; I needed an anchor—something to keep me from sinking. A quiet beat passed. Then a warm touch skimmed my cheek: Christian wiping away the last tears with the back of his fingers.
"How could Father… be so cruel?" My voice splintered. "How could he let Zara dance with him?"
Christian held my gaze for a long moment, as if searching for words that wouldn't cut deeper. He didn't answer. He only gathered me—gently—letting me cry until my sobs thinned to a whisper.
"You have to be strong, Elle," he murmured at last, soft, between my uneven breaths.
A brief kiss touched my forehead—warm, respectful, like an unspoken vow. He eased me down and pulled the blanket to my shoulders.
"I'll be outside," he said. "Call me if you need anything."
The door closed. Silence stretched again. Somewhere out there, the orchestra was likely ending the song. Cheers rose for a winner who never should have stood on my stage. I stared at the ceiling, breathing until the rhythm steadied. Then, slowly, my eyes closed—not from relief, but from exhaustion.
AUTHOR'S POV
In the great hall, the father–daughter dance ended to long applause. Cameras flashed, smiles aligned, and the party rolled on as if nothing had happened. King Edmund greeted guests again, his face composed—yet guilt etched a new, thin line behind his eyes.
Zara drifted among the guests like a newly lit candle—her light bright, her shadow long. Queen Emma stood near a pillar, watching everything like a conductor certain the orchestra would follow her baton.
On the other side of a door, a girl slept with swollen eyes and a torn heart. Someone had stolen her dance—and with it, a small piece of her faith in promises so easy to speak, so hard to keep.
Christian stood in the corridor, shoulder against the paneled wall. He stared at Elle's doorknob, as if he could keep her breathing steady just by watching. Something trembled in his chest, unnamed: anger, pity, protectiveness—or all of them at once.
Night pressed on. The music shifted from waltz to swing; glasses clinked, laughter rang. But beneath the laughter, whispers began: why hadn't Princess Elle appeared on the dance floor? Where was her personal guard? And who was the man in the black tuxedo seen roaming the west corridor before the dance began?
Those questions rolled slowly, like the first snow on a mountain peak. No one knew when they would turn into an avalanche.
For now, there was only the thickening hush behind a princess's door—and a dance stolen from her father's arms.