[Third Person].
Draven appeared at the doorway of the dressing room just as Meredith's maidservants left.
He stopped short when he saw her, but he didn't smile immediately.
He simply looked at her, his gaze steady, unreadable at first, then slowly warming with something deeper than desire—pride, resolve, and a hint of protectiveness he didn't bother to hide.
"You look…" He exhaled quietly, as if choosing restraint over words. "Like someone they won't be able to ignore."
Meredith turned toward him, a faint smile playing on her lips. "That was the idea."
He walked closer, adjusted nothing, touched nothing—just stood before her as though committing the image to memory. After a moment, his hand lifted and rested briefly at her waist, grounding rather than claiming.
"Be careful," he said softly. "Palaces are worse than battlefields. At least enemies on the field show their claws."
"I know," she replied. "And you will be here when it ends as you promised me."
