If the Virell estate was a fortress of duty, then the Rhiordane Palace was a stage.
And tonight, Elyra was the unwilling star.
Her gown was too tight, her hair pinned back with enough enchanted clips to survive a hurricane, and her jaw already ached from forced smiles. She stood just outside the grand ballroom's gilded doors, every inch of her a noblewoman sculpted for display.
Inside, music swelled and laughter spilled like honey—sweet, sticky, and probably poisoned.
"I still have time to run," she muttered.
"You'd get about six steps before someone stopped you," Caelan said from beside her.
Elyra rolled her eyes. "I wasn't asking for your opinion."
"I gave it anyway." He looked annoyingly calm, dressed in crisp black and silver. "You'll have to get used to that."
She glared. He offered his arm.
She stared at it like it was a snake.
"The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can go back to ignoring you," he said.
With a dramatic sigh and every ounce of dignity she could fake, Elyra took it.
The doors opened.
The ballroom was a kaleidoscope of silk and power.
Nobles whispered the moment they entered. Dozens of eyes locked on them—some curious, others calculating, a few openly hungry for scandal. Elyra felt her spine stiffen.
"Smile," Caelan murmured out the side of his mouth.
"I'll smile when this place burns down."
"Romantic."
They moved together like they'd done this a hundred times—him guiding with polished confidence, her matching it with sharp grace. Their fingers barely touched, but the court saw what it wanted to see: the perfect royal couple.
She hated how easy it was to fake.
The first test came fast.
A dowager marchioness—face powdered like a ghost and tongue sharp as a dagger—approached with a goblet of glowing nectarwine and a voice like syrup.
"My, my. The future Queen graces us at last," she said. "Tell me, Lady Virell, how do you find the Prince?"
Elyra blinked. "In what way?"
"In any way," the woman said, smiling like she'd set a trap and wanted to watch her step in it.
Caelan answered smoothly. "She finds me tolerable enough to stay upright."
Elyra smirked. "And I find him slightly less dreadful when his mouth is shut."
Laughter rippled around them—delighted and dangerous.
The marchioness narrowed her eyes, but Caelan offered a mock toast, and the woman drifted away, unsatisfied.
"You're better at this than you let on," he said.
"I've had a lifetime of court theater."
"So have I. The trick is never showing when the stage is burning."
As the night deepened, the music changed—and so did the pressure.
"Dance with her," Queen Lysandra's voice said from behind them. "They need to see it."
Elyra turned, surprised. The Queen stood at the edge of the crowd, flanked by gold-armored guards, her expression unreadable.
"It's just a dance," she added. "But they'll remember it."
Elyra swallowed her pride.
Caelan held out a hand. "Ready to sell the lie?"
She hated him a little less for putting it that way.
They stepped onto the floor. The music swelled again—something old and haunting. Elyra moved carefully, every step in time, every motion calculated. But the longer the dance went on, the more the crowd faded.
Caelan's hand at her waist wasn't quite as cold as she expected.
She looked up—and for a heartbeat—he was already looking at her.
It felt like something cracked. Like the lie had teeth.
They didn't speak.
But when the music stopped and the applause rose around them, Elyra's heart was beating far too fast for comfort.
Later, she stood alone at the balcony, away from the noise, the wine, the compliments she didn't believe.
The city spread below, lights like stars caught in glass.
Caelan joined her, silent.
"Do you think any of them bought it?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away. Then:
"Some of them did. Some of them want to."
"And the rest?"
"They're waiting to watch us fall apart."
Elyra breathed in the night air. It didn't help.
She glanced at him. "So what now?"
Caelan looked at her—truly looked at her—for the first time that evening.
"Now," he said, "we give them a reason to doubt."