The chandeliers of the royal palace glittered like a thousand frozen stars, their light spilling across marble floors polished so fine they seemed like mirrors. Perfume, candle smoke, and the sweet bite of wine mingled in the air. Music swelled, violins rising above the hum of nobles whispering in corners, courtiers scheming behind jeweled masks of courtesy.
And Seraphina stood at the center of it all, a bride offered to a crown that did not belong to her heart.
Her gown shimmered in shades of ivory and silver, chosen by the queen herself to symbolize purity, obedience, and alliance. She wore it like armor, though inside her chest her heart hammered with a rhythm no court musician could mimic. Tonight, she was no longer the daughter of Duke Corvane. She was the betrothed of Prince Lucien, heir to the throne.
Her eyes found him easily across the hall: Lucien, tall and golden, the very image of calm authority. He smiled at her as he spoke to a cluster of nobles, his hand lifted in the smallest, most practiced gesture of reassurance. He was kind, she reminded herself. Kind, dutiful, and destined to be her husband.
And yet—
Her gaze slid, unbidden, to the figure standing at his side.
Adrien.
The name struck her like a blade through silk, cutting through years of silence.
He was dressed in black trimmed with crimson, a deliberate contrast to his brother's gold. Where Lucien was sunlight, Adrien was storm: sharp-jawed, broad-shouldered, eyes so dark they seemed to burn beneath the torches. His presence bent the air around him. He had not yet spoken to her, not even a polite greeting, but she felt him—felt the way his gaze slid over her like fire catching on dry wood.
It had been seven years since she had last seen him. Seven years since that summer in the palace gardens, when she was only fifteen and he barely older, when laughter and daring glances had turned into a single, stolen kiss beneath the roses. Seven years since her father had whisked her back to her own land, promising her future to another.
She had tried to bury that memory. Tried to convince herself it was a childish dream. But now, with Adrien's eyes upon her across the glittering ballroom, the truth crashed through her like thunder. She had never forgotten.
And from the look in his gaze, neither had he.
---
The queen's voice rose, clear and sharp as a bell:
"Tonight, we welcome Lady Seraphina of House Corvane, betrothed to my beloved son, Crown Prince Lucien. May this union bind our kingdoms in peace everlasting."
Applause rang through the hall. Wine goblets were lifted, jewels glittered as courtiers bowed. Seraphina lowered her head gracefully, hiding the tremor of her lips. Peace everlasting. She wondered if anyone else noticed how tightly her hands clenched the silk of her gown.
When she raised her eyes again, Adrien was gone.
Her breath caught.
A hand brushed hers—Lucien's, steady and warm.
"You are pale, my lady. Do the lights overwhelm you?"
She forced a smile. "Only a little, Your Highness. I will grow used to it."
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. Lucien's kindness was a blade in its own right—it made betrayal all the sharper.
And then, a voice like velvet and steel brushed her ear.
"Perhaps she requires air."
Seraphina froze. Slowly, she turned her head. Adrien stood behind her, close enough that the heat of his body brushed her back, close enough that no one else could hear his words. His lips did not curve in a smile, but the shadow of one lingered at the corner.
Lucien's brows lifted in surprise. "Brother. I wondered when you would speak."
"I was waiting for the right moment." Adrien's gaze never left Seraphina's face. His tone was smooth, but beneath it something dangerous coiled. "May I have the honor of leading Lady Seraphina to the balcony? The air here can be… suffocating."
Lucien hesitated. Court eyes were upon them, waiting, judging. To deny his brother might appear cold. At last, he inclined his head. "Very well. But only a few minutes, Adrien. The lady must not grow weary."
Adrien offered his hand.
For a heartbeat, Seraphina did not move. She could not. Her mind screamed no, her heart whispered yes. At last, like a woman walking into a fire she could not resist, she laid her hand in his.
---
The balcony was lit by moonlight, cool and pale against the heat of the feast behind them. Roses climbed the stone railings, their scent thick in the air. Music drifted faintly, muffled by doors of carved oak.
Adrien released her hand only to step closer, trapping her between himself and the stone balustrade.
"You should not be here," she whispered, though her voice shook with something far more dangerous than fear.
"And yet here I am." His eyes glimmered with a heat that unraveled her. "And here you are. Betrothed to my brother."
Her breath caught. "Do not—"
"I remember," he said, his voice a low growl meant only for her. "Do you? The roses. The night you told me you would never forget."
Her heart pounded. "I was a child. We were foolish."
He leaned in, his lips a whisper from her ear. "You still taste of lies when you say that."
Her knees weakened. She should have pushed him away, reminded him of duty, of the eyes that might see. Instead, her fingers clenched the balustrade, knuckles white, holding herself back from touching him.
"Adrien," she breathed, the name torn from her like confession.
For the first time, his mask cracked. He closed his eyes briefly, as though hearing his name on her lips was agony and salvation both.
When he looked at her again, the storm in his gaze had no restraint.
"I am betrothed," he said bitterly. "You are betrothed. Perhaps that is the cruelest jest of the gods."
Her chest tightened. "Then we must forget. As if nothing ever—"
His hand lifted, brushing her jaw, tilting her face up. Her words broke. His thumb traced her lower lip, and every nerve in her body burned.
"Tell me to leave," he whispered. "Tell me to forget, and I will walk away."
But she could not. The words stuck in her throat.
And Adrien knew.
The sound of footsteps in the hall made her jerk back. Adrien's hand dropped, his jaw tightening.
Lucien's voice called through the door. "Seraphina? Adrien? Are you well?"
Adrien's lips curved in something like a smirk, though his eyes were fire.
"Well enough," he said smoothly, stepping back at last.
Seraphina pressed her hands to her gown, desperate to still the tremor in her body.
When the doors opened, Lucien smiled, oblivious. "Come, the dance is about to begin."
Adrien offered his arm. For the world, he was the perfect prince, his expression unreadable. Only Seraphina felt the truth in the brief brush of his fingers against hers as he escorted her back inside: a promise, a warning, a chain that bound them both.