March – Markov Estate
The Lights That Don't Blink
The ballroom had transformed.
Golden chandeliers blazed like captured starlight overhead, reflecting off glass pillars and marble floors that gleamed under endless polishing. The high ceiling was draped with velvet banners bearing noble crests, swaying ever so slightly with the warmth of bodies, breath, and music.
The great hall was alive with whispers and silk.
Jay stood near the side archway, dressed in the Markov family black and silver, the tailoring as precise as a blade's edge. His posture was still, expression composed, but inside—something buzzed.
Guests arrived in slow waves. Lords and ladies from rival houses. Distant cousins in flamboyant fashion. Political sharks dressed in smiles. It was a performance, every step rehearsed, every glance measured.
He caught familiar eyes—Clara was already circulating, dressed in deep garnet, trading words and warnings like they were currency.
But then the music shifted.
A softer prelude.
And silence rippled.
She entered.
The Crown That Doesn't Glitter
Christin Aldwynn stood at the top of the stairs.
She wore a floor-length gown of deep sapphire silk, embroidered with fine silver that shimmered like frost across a winter lake. The fabric clung with elegance—not showy, but sculpted to form. Her dark hair was pulled into a high twist, a single crystal pin catching the light. Around her neck: a narrow silver chain, no gems, just grace.
Jay didn't breathe.
She descended slowly, steps perfect, expression unreadable—but there was warmth in her eyes.
She wasn't dazzling.
She was devastating.
Not because she wanted to be seen—but because she couldn't be ignored.
Jay's heart kicked once in his chest, sharp and unwanted.
Christin's gaze found him.
And for a moment, it wasn't a ballroom.
It was a warzone.
And he was losing.
III. The Whispered Strike
She reached him, her heels whispering against polished stone.
"Lord Markov," she greeted, voice velvet-smooth.
"Lady Aldwynn," he replied, offering his hand.
She accepted.
They walked toward the floor together, the music swelling.
Just before they stepped into the center spotlight, Jay leaned in.
His voice was low. For her alone.
"You look like you stepped out of a painting," he whispered. "And the artist still wouldn't do you justice."
She blinked.
Then—her breath hitched.
Her cheeks coloured, barely, but enough. A single second of surprise, like a thread snapping behind flawless control.
No words came.
He smiled.
The First Movements
They moved in perfect synchrony, their feet gliding across the floor as if gravity had agreed to step aside.
Jay held her hand with confidence, but not possessiveness. His posture relaxed, shoulders rolled back—not like someone forced to attend, but someone who chose to stay.
Christin's eyes darted to him once. Just a glance.
"I wasn't expecting that," she murmured.
Jay tilted his head slightly. "The compliment?"
"Mm."
"Would you like me to take it back?"
Her lips curved. "No. But it was… unfair."
"How so?"
"You can't just say things like that. Not when I'm trying to remain composed."
Jay chuckled quietly. "You look like you've practiced being composed since birth."
"I have," she replied. "But no one told me it wouldn't help when you're around."
Jay's brows lifted, genuinely surprised.
"I take that as a compliment."
"You should. I don't give many."
The next turn brought them into clearer view of the crowd. Murmurs rose.
Eyes followed them.
"Everyone's watching," Christin whispered, though her smile didn't falter.
"Let them," Jay replied. "It's the first time they've had something real to look at."
She blinked again.
"Stop that," she said softly.
"What?"
"Making me forget who I'm supposed to be."
Jay held her gaze. "Maybe you're allowed to be someone else. Just for tonight."
Christin didn't answer. But her fingers, light against his, curled ever so slightly closer.
And the dance continued.
Reactions from the Shadows
From the edge of the room, Clara watched them through narrowed eyes, her fan hiding the slight frown pulling at her lips.
"She's good," she muttered under her breath.
"Too good," came Elias's voice beside her. His expression, as always, was unreadable. His eyes flicked from Christin to Jay, then back again.
"She's not trying to outshine him," Clara observed.
"No," Elias said. "She's complementing him. Perfectly."
Clara's fan snapped shut.
"That's worse."
Around them, murmurs fluttered—compliments, speculation, a few veiled criticisms masked in social polish. Some spoke of Jay's presence, his calm charisma. Others noted Christin's effortless command of the floor.
Together, they didn't look arranged.
They looked natural.
Too natural.
Lady Helena leaned in from her corner seat, eyes calculating behind her wine glass. "The Markovs may have stumbled onto something dangerous," she said to no one in particular.
The music slowed.
The last note lingered.
Jay and Christin came to a stop, perfectly timed.
The crowd broke into soft applause.
But the quiet tension rippling beneath the admiration?
That said more than applause ever could.
Approaches and Proposals
The dance had ended, but the game had only begun.
Jay barely stepped off the floor before the first noble closed in—a tall man in a plum-trimmed overcoat, smile sharp and eyes sharper.
"Lord Markov," he began, bowing with just enough respect to be calculated. "May I say—an exceptional showing. You've grown into your family's name."
Jay gave the politest nod he could manage. "You're too kind."
"Not kind," the man replied. "Just observant. That dance wasn't just performance. It was promise."
Christin remained at Jay's side, expression poised, unreadable once more.
More guests approached. A woman from House Deneuve, trailing silk and curiosity. A younger noble from the northern coast, nervously offering congratulations and fishing for an alliance.
Jay smiled. Spoke where needed. Deflected where necessary.
And all the while, Christin said nothing.
She didn't need to.
Her presence beside him was statement enough.
Until—
"Well, isn't this charming?"
Clara.
VII. The Warning Behind the Smile
She appeared between two conversations, slipping into their space like smoke.
"Cousin," Clara said, voice bright. "You're glowing."
Jay raised an eyebrow. "You sound surprised."
"Oh, not at all," she said, fluttering her fan. "I just didn't expect the stars to align this perfectly."
Her eyes flicked to Christin. "Lady Aldwynn. Still as composed as ever. Though I must admit, you're a bit more flushed than usual."
Christin tilted her head. "Must be the lighting."
Clara's smile widened. "Or the company."
Jay sighed. "Clara—"
But she waved a hand. "Relax. I'm not here to stir trouble. Just to remind you..." Her voice dipped slightly. "Nothing here is ever just a dance."
She stepped back into the crowd before either could reply.
Jay let out a breath. "That was subtle for her."
"She's sharpening the knives," Christin said quietly. "She just hasn't chosen where to aim them yet."
"Let's hope it's not us."
Christin gave him a sidelong glance. "Would that really stop you?"
Jay looked at her. "Not tonight."
She smiled, faint but real.
And then, without invitation, she slipped her hand back into his.
"Come," she said.
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere quiet. Before someone tries to marry us off in the next five minutes."
They disappeared from the edge of the ballroom, leaving murmurs and music behind them.