The palace ballroom gleams like a frozen lake—cold, sparkling, deceptive.
Crystal chandeliers drip with gold light, scattering diamonds across polished marble floors. Nobles twirl with painted smiles, their laughter ringing like brittle glass. Servants glide between them, quiet as winter wind.
And in the center of it all, I stand perfectly still.
Countess Anastasia Volkov.
Infamous. Unwanted. The villainess everyone expects to fail spectacularly.
Their eyes follow me like shadows.
"Volkov is here…"
"Look at her pretending to be calm."
"She'll cause trouble. She always does."
I pretend not to hear. I hold my champagne glass lightly, shoulders back, face arranged into the perfect porcelain mask.
Inside, however?
My heart is a storm.
I have already spotted the heroine—Ksenia Romanova—glowing with sunshine grace. I've watched the Crown Prince's gaze soften at her mere presence.
And I have prepared myself for everything the novel promised.
Everything except him.
The air changes before I even see him.
The temperature drops—barely noticeable, but enough to make goosebumps creep up my arms. Conversations crackle into silence. Heads turn toward the entrance like metal drawn to a magnet.
A ripple of tension spreads through the hall.
Whispers rise.
"He's here—"
"The Duke—"
"Gods, he rarely attends these gatherings—"
"Why would he come?"
Because fate is cruel, perhaps.
Because this story is determined to drag me into danger.
Because standing beneath the marble arch, framed by pillars of gold…
is Dmitri Ivanov, Duke of the North.
I forget how to breathe.
He is… overwhelming.
Tall, commanding, dressed in black formal military regalia lined with silver thread. Cold blue decorations gleam against his chest—medals awarded for victories most nobles only whisper about.
His presence is not merely imposing.
It is suffocating.
No smile.
No warmth.
No softness.
A sculpted monument of discipline and winter.
His gloved hands rest behind him.
His boots strike the marble with the muted authority of someone who does not need to announce himself to be recognized.
He moves with precision—the kind that belongs to a soldier, not a noble.
Heads bow instinctively.
Even the air seems to hold its breath.
And then—
His gaze sweeps the ballroom.
Sharp. Calculating. Unforgiving.
Until it lands on me.
And stops.
My fingers tighten around my glass. A chill licks the back of my neck.
He doesn't look away.
In fact… he studies me.
As if he's trying to understand something he shouldn't have noticed.
Why is he looking at me?
Me, of all people?
The nobles notice instantly.
"Why her?"
"Is the Duke observing the Countess?"
"She'll bring misfortune to him too—watch."
Their whispers coil around me like smoke.
I try to look elsewhere, but my eyes betray me—they return to him, drawn back by some magnetic force.
His face doesn't change.
Not a twitch.
Not a blink.
But something about the room shifts.
Suddenly, nothing exists between us but a stretch of polished marble and a silence thick enough to drown in.
Then his steps begin.
One.
Two.
Three.
Measured. Heavy. Intentional.
Heading straight toward me.
Oh no. Oh no, why—why is he—
My lungs freeze.
Nobles part for him instinctively, forming a path as if afraid to even brush against his coat. Their eyes jump from him to me, then back again.
He stops directly in front of me.
Close enough that I can smell faint snow and cold steel. Close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.
"Countess," he says.
My heart trembles.
His voice is deep, perfectly controlled, smooth like winter wind slicing through untouched snow.
"Y-your Grace," I manage, bowing slightly.
He watches me bow. Watches the trembling of my lashes. Watches the breath I try to steady.
And I swear—
for a moment—
his icy expression cracks.
Barely.
A tiny fracture in a glacier.
"You are not what I expected," he says quietly.
My breath catches.
"What… did you expect?"
His gaze drags down my face, slow and assessing. Not in a possessive or inappropriate way—no, this is far more dangerous.
He is memorizing me.
Studying. Calculating.
"As the rumors claim," he says, "I expected someone loud. Arrogant. Reckless."
I stiffen.
Rumors. Of course.
The original Countess Volkov was all of those things—spoiled, jealous, obsessed with the Crown Prince.
I am none of those things.
"I see," I reply carefully. "And now?"
His eyes pierce deeper.
"Now," he murmurs, "I find myself questioning whether the rumors were crafted by fools."
Heat prickles down my spine.
Is he complimenting me? No. This feels… sharper. More dangerous. Like he's testing my reactions.
Before I can respond, he speaks again.
"What changed you, I wonder?"
My heart slams.
He noticed.
He sensed it.
He shouldn't sense anything—no one should realize I am not the same Anastasia Volkov who grew up in this world.
But this man…
This cold, piercing duke…
He sees too much.
"I do not understand what you mean," I say softly.
"Mm," he hums in quiet disagreement. "You are composed. Observant. Detached. You watch the room as if you are not part of it."
"I simply prefer peace, Your Grace."
"Peace." A faint exhale escapes him, almost like laughter. "A curious answer, coming from a woman whose reputation drips with chaos."
I swallow.
His stare feels like a blade—sharp, precise, slicing through my carefully built mask.
"You do not fear me," he observes.
My pulse jumps.
I should. Everyone does.
Even generals bow their heads and avoid meeting his eyes.
"I am… trying not to be rude," I answer quietly.
This time, he looks away for a brief second—almost thoughtful.
"A convenient excuse," he murmurs. "But untrue."
He leans closer.
Not enough to touch.
Just enough to steal my breath.
"You look at me," he says softly, "as if measuring my weight."
My stomach flips.
"You do not flinch when I stand before you."
I grip my glass tighter.
"And worst of all…" His voice dips lower. "You meet my gaze without hesitation."
I suddenly feel too warm. Too exposed.
Dmitri Ivanov is a man who dissects with his eyes.
I force myself to answer calmly. "Would you prefer that I tremble?"
Most nobles would. Nobles enjoy the power.
But his lips curve—barely, a ghost of a shape.
"No. I detest trembling."
It's the closest thing to humor I've ever heard from him.
Before I can react, he extends a gloved hand—
not in invitation.
But in formality.
"Then allow me to greet you properly, Countess Volkov."
My breath stutters.
He is offering me something he rarely gives anyone.
Recognition.
Not to mock.
Not to threaten.
Just… formal acknowledgement.
I place my hand carefully in his.
His grip is firm, steady, grounding.
And in that moment—
in that single handshake—
a silent spark leaps between us.
A crack in the world.
A shift in the air.
A spark of something that shouldn't exist yet… does.
He releases me slowly, as if memorizing the shape of my hand before letting go.
Then he says quietly:
"You will see me again, Countess."
It's not a question.
Not a prediction.
A certainty.
A promise.
Then he steps back, gives a curt nod, and walks past me—
leaving the ballroom colder in his absence.
Whispers erupt instantly.
"What was that?"
"Volkov and the Duke—did they just—talk?"
"He never greets anyone!"
"Why her? Why her?"
My heart pounds with each word.
But I can still feel the ghost of his touch, the weight of his stare, the spark that erupted like lightning between us.
I exhale shakily.
This wasn't in the original novel.
The Duke wasn't supposed to look at the villainess.
He wasn't supposed to notice her.
He wasn't supposed to speak to her.
And yet…
Tonight, he did.
Tonight… something shifted.
And I don't know whether to fear it—
or crave it.