[Lavinia's POV—Imperial Ballroom—After the Toast]
Applause thundered through the ballroom. Crystal chimed. Silk whispered. The music rose in triumphant waves as the celebration officially began.
I opened, and the first dance was mine—with Papa.
His grip was firm, his posture unyielding, and his expression carved from imperial stone. But I knew him too well. Beneath that tyrant's composure was a father so proud it nearly leaked through the cracks.
"I still don't like that gown," he muttered as we turned.
I smirked. "You approved it."
"I approved the front."
"Papa."
"Hm."
Despite his complaints, he guided me flawlessly across the floor, every step precise, every movement commanding. The crowd watched with reverence—this was not just a dance. It was a declaration.
Afterward came formalities.
I danced with Osric—polite, distant, and ceremonial. Nothing more. Nothing less. And yet, even as we moved through the steps, I felt it.
Haldor's gaze.
