After the prince and Cinderella vanished into the garden bless the moon for discretion, the ballroom's anticipation circled like hungry birds. Everyone waited for the royal dance — the kind that decides gossip, fortunes, and, if Mother were to be believed, the very weather.
Drizella and I stayed near the wall, pretending not to care while absolutely caring. Mother hovered between us, suspicious and restless, fanning herself with increasing irritation.
"I don't see the girl anywhere," she muttered. "Dangerous women never stay visible for long."
"Mother," I said sweetly, "she merely went to breathe. Something we could all practice."
Mother shot me a glare that could peel paint.
We waited — for Cinderella's return, for the music to decide something, for fate to remember we existed.
And then the Prince's bodyguard approached.
Not slinking, not bowing, not doing anything the room expected — just walking like someone who didn't mind being seen where others feared being noticed. He stopped before Mother with the air of a man politely requesting access to a guarded bridge.
"Lady Ashbourne," he said with a courteous nod. "I'm Rowan, Royal bodyguard. His Highness would be grateful for a moment of your attention at the refreshment table. Matters of event order."
Mother straightened at once, smoothing her gown as if royalty were about to inspect her seams.
"Oh? Well. Naturally. I shall supervise their beverages."
Off she went — dangerous, determined, and temporarily out of our hair.
Rowan turned to Drizella. His expression softened by half-shadows and candlelight, he murmured without theatrics,
"May I have this dance?"
Drizella blinked. "Are you serious or bored?"
"Entirely serious," he said. "If I were bored, I'd approach someone less interesting."
She tried not to smile. Failed.
"All right then. But if I embarrass myself, you'll pretend it was your fault."
"That was the plan."
Then the music shifted — slow, warm, and expectant.
* * *
Rowan guided Drizella into the center of the floor as if the entire invitation belonged to her, not to the ballroom or its judgment.
Drizella, however, approached the dance like a complicated recipe.
"Right, so—where do my arms go? And which direction are we rotating? Clockwise? Counterclockwise? Clockwise feels aggressive—"
Rowan laughed quietly, taking her hand.
"Breathe. It's not a duel."
"With these skirts, everything is a duel."
He placed his other hand at her waist — gentle, certain, unhurried. It startled her more than she let show.
Their first steps collided spectacularly.
"Ow—sorry—I thought we were going that way."
"We were," Rowan said softly, "and then you invented a shortcut."
"Bold innovation," Drizella declared.
"Bold chaos," he corrected, smiling.
She flushed, annoyed with her own heartbeat.
After a few missteps, Rowan adjusted their pace — slower, steadier, easier, as if the dance were being taught to the music instead of the other way around.
Drizella tried again, more careful this time.
"So you do this often?"
"Dancing? Not terribly." He looked up, gaze steady. "But I like learning with you."
That silenced her for a beat — not because she lacked something clever to say, but because no one had ever said anything so simply and meant it.
Around them, nobles stared, puzzled by the pairing. Rowan stared back until curiosity retreated, as if daring the room to question his choices.
Eventually, Drizella found the rhythm.
"Oh. This isn't so bad. I might even be good at it."
"You already are," Rowan said. "You just keep trying to argue with the music."
"Perhaps it started it."
"It didn't."
She stumbled again — deliberately this time — just to make him laugh.
And he did, low and warm, the kind that pulled colors into the moment that hadn't been there before.
If Rowan danced romantic, Drizella danced rebellious — together forming something the ballroom didn't have a name for, and wasn't entirely sure it approved of.
Which, naturally, made it better.
* * *
The ballroom began to hum again once the music changed and the courtiers remembered their ambitions.
Drizella, miraculously, was still dancing with Rowan. Mother nowhere in sight to ruin it.
My respite, however, was short-lived.
A gentleman approached, older than me by a generous number of years, with a polished mustache and a posture that screamed recently divorced. He bowed with a flourish that smelled faintly of desperation and expensive cologne.
"Lady Anastasia," he declared, "may I have this dance?"
I hesitated, stunned that he even knew my name. Mother's voice materialized in my head immediately:
Always accept when asked — girls cannot afford to be picky.
Which was infuriating, but also true in a ballroom ranked by beauty and bloodlines. To refuse him would mark me as rude. To accept him would mark me as available.
Checkmate by etiquette.
"Yes," I said, because pride was expensive and I couldn't afford it tonight.

We danced.
Or rather, he danced and I endured—gliding through the motions like a well-trained mannequin while he recited facts about his estate and his former wife's spending habits.
"I simply do not believe a lady should own more than twelve gowns," he sighed.
I, wearing gown number one in a lifetime total of three, resisted the urge to bite him.
When the music ended, he bowed again and said,
"Most refreshing."
"I'm delighted," I lied flawlessly. "Truly invigorating."
Before he could offer conversation, I executed the most elegant retreat ever disguised as a search for air.
Straight into the garden I went, skirts whispering against stone as lanterns cast gold over hedges and statues. The night tasted better than the ballroom — less judgment, more moonlight.
I found a bench and collapsed into it, breathing out the dance, the man, the rules, the whole glittering charade.
For a moment, I could imagine being content.
For a moment, the world was quiet.
Midnight began to strike.
Not whimsical — intrusive.
Loud. Authority made of bells.
One chime. Two. Three.
The kind of sound that reminds everyone who owns the night and who merely visits it.
A blur darted across the garden path — pale, fast, and unmistakably wearing the remnants of royal attention.
I straightened on the bench, breath caught.
Cinderella?
I didn't have time to call out.
She was already running.
Cinderella ran before the room could swallow her name.
She bolted.
Not daintily, not apologetically. Full-speed.
Her slippered feet slapped the marble steps, skirts hiked in both hands like a girl who'd practiced escaping long before tonight. The ballroom erupted behind her — gasps, whispers, outrage disguised as concern.
"Miss—wait!" the prince called, breath tangled in disbelief.
She didn't stop.
The night air hit her like cold freedom.
She took the stairs two at a time. One of her shoes slid sideways — she stumbled, cursed under her breath, and kicked it off entirely.
The shoe bounced once and landed halfway down the staircase, abandoned but deliberate. Shoes were not expensive. But identity was.
Cinderella continued barefoot — faster now, surer, as if speed itself were dignity.
Across the terrace, a valet shouted something about carriages; a footman pointed; a noblewoman clutched her pearls as if scandal were contagious through eyesight.
The prince reached the top of the steps a moment too late. He froze, scanning the path, chest rising with exertion he wasn't used to. His eyes caught on the single shoe left behind — tiny, elegant, and deeply human.
Not a magical relic.
A clue with questions attached.
He bent, lifting it carefully, as though afraid the night might break it.
Behind him the ballroom whispered, hungry for explanations.
Ahead of him, Cinderella vanished into the hedges, then through the gate where a single hired coach waited — worn but sturdy. She climbed in, slammed the door, and pounded once.
"Go!"
The driver needed no more than that. Wheels lurched. The carriage rattled into darkness, fast and clumsy, just like escape tends to be.
Inside, Cinderella pressed a hand to her chest and tried to breathe. Not from romance — from sheer, unfiltered survival.
She whispered to no one,
"He wasn't supposed to see me like this."
And the city swallowed her whole.
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SIDE NOTE: Party is over for Cinderella but it's still on for the other two. This chapter is my favorite because of Rowan and Drizella. 💗 I always add pictures for reference above. But this time I wanted to add a second picture. I hope everyone enjoyed it.
Am I the only one with second couple syndrome. ☺
If you like my story then give it a star and share it with your friends, this will help me to keep motivated and write new stories.