The ballroom had swelled with anticipation. Nobles lined the walls, silks and jewels flashing under candlelight, their eyes trained on the center of the floor where the betrothed couple would begin the first dance.
Lucien guided Seraphina to her place with practiced grace. His hand was steady, his smile calm, every inch the perfect crown prince. She tried to mirror his composure, yet her pulse was a wild, frantic thing beneath her skin.
Because Adrien stood only a few paces away.
He lingered in the shadows at the edge of the dancers, his eyes fixed on her like an unspoken vow. He was meant to partner Evelyne, his fiancée, in the second round of dances. But tonight his gaze belonged only to her.
Seraphina forced herself to breathe as the music began. Lucien's hand on her waist was gentle, guiding her into the sweep of the waltz. Around them, nobles clapped in time, their voices rising in admiration. To them, she was radiant, a picture of grace at the crown prince's side.
But inside, she was drowning.
For each turn, each step, brought her back into Adrien's line of sight. Their gazes collided over and over — fleeting, electric, unbearable. He moved little, his expression unreadable, but his eyes… his eyes burned with something raw, dangerous, and entirely unfit for this polished hall.
Stop looking at him, she begged herself. Stop remembering.
Yet memory was a cruel thing. Every brush of Lucien's hand reminded her of a different touch, one stolen long ago among roses. Every note of the music reminded her of Adrien's laughter, deep and reckless, echoing through the gardens when they had been young.
Her foot faltered. Lucien steadied her instantly.
"You are trembling," he murmured. "Are you unwell?"
Seraphina forced a smile. "Just nerves, my prince. So many eyes upon us."
Lucien chuckled softly. "They adore you already. In time, you will not notice the stares."
If only he knew that the only stare she noticed was his brother's.
The music swelled toward its climax. Lucien twirled her gracefully, and for a brief moment she spun, skirts flaring, gaze searching the crowd—
And found Adrien.
His lips curved, the faintest hint of a smile, one meant only for her. Not mockery, not cruelty. Possession.
Her breath caught. She stumbled as the dance ended, her curtsy a second too low, her composure almost shattered. Polite applause filled the hall, masking the storm in her chest.
"Perfect," Lucien said warmly, lifting her hand to his lips. "You were perfect."
She nodded, unable to speak. Her throat was too tight.
And then Adrien was there.
"Brother." His voice cut smoothly through the air, dark and silken. "May I claim the lady for the next dance?"
The hall fell silent. It was tradition that others might dance with the betrothed after the opening waltz, but Adrien's request carried weight. Whispers stirred at the edges of the crowd.
Lucien hesitated, his brows faintly knitting. Then, with a smile that masked all unease, he stepped aside. "Of course. My brother will take care of you."
Adrien's hand extended.
Seraphina's fingers trembled as they touched his. Every instinct screamed at her to refuse, to hide, to run. But another force, older and deeper, pulled her forward. She placed her hand in his, and the world tilted.
---
The orchestra struck up a new melody — slower, deeper, a waltz meant not for display but for intimacy. Couples moved onto the floor around them, yet Seraphina saw none of them.
Only him.
Adrien pulled her close, closer than propriety allowed. His hand pressed firmly against her back, guiding her as if she were his alone.
"You should not have asked," she whispered, her lips barely moving.
"Perhaps," he murmured back, eyes never leaving hers. "But I wanted to see if you would say no."
Her heart lurched. "And if I had?"
His mouth curved, wicked and soft. "Then I would have known you've forgotten. But you haven't."
The floor turned beneath them, dancers spinning like stars. Seraphina felt as though she were falling through darkness, anchored only by the heat of Adrien's body, the fire in his gaze.
"You are cruel," she whispered.
"Cruel?" His voice was low, intimate. "For wanting what was mine first?"
Her breath shuddered. "I was never yours."
"You were," he said, the words searing. "And you are still. No crown, no vows, no betrothal can erase it."
She faltered, her steps breaking. Adrien's arm tightened, steadying her, holding her upright against him. His fingers pressed into her spine as if daring her to deny him again.
"Look at me," he demanded softly.
She did — and in his gaze she saw everything she feared: memory, desire, and a hunger that had never died.
The music ended.
Applause thundered. Nobles smiled, oblivious, praising the grace of the dance. But Seraphina could scarcely breathe. Her chest heaved, her skin burned, her lips trembled with words unsaid.
Adrien bowed over her hand, his lips brushing her skin. The touch was fleeting, proper to all who watched. But the look he gave her as he straightened promised fire.
---
Later, when Evelyne approached to claim Adrien for her turn, Seraphina felt the ground tilt again. The princess was radiant in crimson, eyes sharp as daggers, smile sweet as poisoned wine.
Adrien accepted her hand, but his gaze lingered on Seraphina one heartbeat too long. Evelyne noticed.
And Seraphina knew: the game had begun.