The ballroom glittered with chandeliers, each crystal reflecting golden light like frozen stars. Aria Acherley stood near the edge of the crowd, her slender fingers clutching a glass of champagne she hadn't tasted. The gown she wore was the color of moonlight, a silk so delicate it whispered when she moved.
Everyone's eyes seemed to follow her—yet she had never felt so unseen.
It had been months since she had last stepped onto the ice. Months since her skates cut through frozen surfaces, carrying her across arenas filled with thunderous applause. Now, she was nothing more than a daughter, a bargaining chip polished for display.
Her father's hand rested heavily on her shoulder. "Smile," he whispered, his tone both urgent and commanding. "Tonight changes everything."
Aria obeyed. She always obeyed.
The announcement came swiftly, wrapped in the clink of glasses and polite laughter. Her father's voice rang out: "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present my daughter, Aria Acherley—and her future husband, Henry Lannister."
The room erupted in applause, but the sound seemed hollow in Aria's ears. She turned her head, searching, and then she saw him.
Henry Lannister moved through the crowd like a storm contained within a tailored suit. His presence silenced whispers, commanded attention. Tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes the sharp blue of a winter sea—he looked like a man carved from ice and tempered by fire.
And Aria knew him.
Not well, not intimately—but enough. They had gone to the same private school years ago, walked the same marble corridors and shared the same classrooms. She remembered him as the boy everyone noticed—the one who won debates effortlessly, who captained the basketball team with an almost ruthless focus. He had been magnetic even then, though she had never spoken to him more than a polite hello.
She had watched him from a distance, as so many girls had. She remembered the way sunlight struck his hair during late spring practices, how easily he seemed to move through the world, untouchable and certain of himself. Aria had admired him quietly, the way she admired a perfect performance on the ice—something beautiful but unreachable.
Back then, she had been too focused on skating, too wrapped up in chasing her dreams on frozen rinks to chase after a boy. She had thought about him sometimes, of course, in the private corners of her mind, but never enough to matter. Or so she told herself.
And now—now he was to be her husband.
When he reached the platform, he nodded curtly to her father, then finally allowed his gaze to fall on her. Aria's breath caught. Something inside her—some foolish, romantic part that had never died despite the years—fluttered wildly. He was the same Henry Lannister, only sharper, colder, hardened by years and success.
But his expression was unreadable. Worse—disdainful.
Their hands touched for the first time when their fathers urged them forward. His grip was firm, almost punishing. She smiled softly, searching his eyes for a spark, but what she found was contempt.
"Pleasure," he murmured, the word sounding more like an inconvenience than a greeting.
Aria's heart ached, but she forced her lips into a radiant smile.
The night dragged on with introductions, photographs, and endless congratulations. People whispered about how perfect they looked together—the ice princess and the ruthless CEO, a match of elegance and power. But no one saw how Henry refused to stand too close, how his hand slipped from hers at the first opportunity, how his jaw tightened whenever their fathers spoke of merging fortunes.
Later, when the ballroom emptied and the music faded, Aria found herself alone on a balcony. The city stretched beneath her, glittering and alive. She wrapped her arms around herself, whispering into the night, "Maybe it's enough that I love him. Maybe… he'll learn to love me too."
Behind her, the door creaked open.
Henry stepped out, his tie loosened, a glass of scotch in his hand. The cool night air brushed over them, but it was his presence that made her shiver.
"Do not mistake this for anything it isn't," he said quietly, without looking at her.
Aria's smile faltered. "What do you mean?"
Henry turned then, his gaze sharp enough to wound. "This marriage is business. An alliance. I did not ask for it, and I do not want it. Don't delude yourself into thinking it's anything more."
The words struck her like blades. For a moment, she couldn't breathe.
"I—" she began, but her voice trembled.
"You seem sweet," he continued, his tone clipped, final. "But I have no interest in playing husband. Stay out of my way, and perhaps we can tolerate each other."
With that, he left, the door slamming behind him.
Aria stood frozen, her chest hollow. Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry—not here, not now. She had dreamed of love since she was a child, dreamed of skating across not only ice but also the fragile surface of her own heart, carried by the possibility of someone who would see her. She thought Henry could be that person.
But he hated her.
She leaned against the railing, her thoughts spiraling back to those high school years. She had watched him then, admired him quietly. He had seemed untouchable even as a teenager, moving through life with a kind of relentless purpose. But he had also been distant, guarded, as though even then he carried burdens too heavy for his young shoulders.
And she had thought—foolishly—that time might have softened him, that adulthood might have shaped him into someone warmer, someone who could share a life, a dream, a future.
Instead, he had only grown colder.
The city lights blurred as tears finally fell. Aria pressed a hand against her chest as though she could hold her breaking heart together. Somewhere deep inside, a small voice whispered that she would learn to endure, that maybe her love could soften him.
Yet another part of her—the part that had lived on cold rinks, that had learned how to fall and rise again—knew the truth.
This was only the beginning of her sorrow.