Parental Guidance Suggested – Some scenes contain emotionally intense interactions and suggestive power dynamics that may not be suitable for younger readers.
The maid tugged the corset strings tighter, and I let out a soft breath as the bodice hugged my ribs. The mirror in front of me reflected someone I barely recognized.
A girl dressed in red and gold, all curves and control. A flame fashioned into silk.
"Almost ready, my lady," the maid whispered, gently tucking a stray curl behind my ear.
I nodded wordlessly. My hair had been swept back and pinned with gold combs, while the rest flowed in soft waves down my back—red as sunset, wild as memory. My gown shimmered with every movement: a deep crimson overlaid with gold embroidery, the kind of dress that said I belonged to a world I'd never asked to enter.
I didn't feel powerful. I felt like a weapon dressed for display.
"Do you want perfume?" the maid asked.
"No. I'll be fine."
The palace awaited. And so did the people who would judge, whisper, and weigh every move I made.
Outside, the Duke and my father would already be waiting.
I descended the staircase alone. Each step clicked with the precision of practiced poise, but my heart was anything but calm. At the bottom, the butler opened the heavy door—and the chill night air hit my skin like a warning.
The carriage gleamed in the moonlight, imperial black trimmed in polished gold. A pair of footmen stood at attention. One opened the door.
I climbed in, gathering my skirts with practiced grace. The door shut behind me, sealing the silence.
The ride to the Celestine Palace passed in a blur of lanterns and cobblestones. I stared out the window, watching reflections of gold flicker over the glass. My thoughts tangled.
Cassian's smile. The Duke's silence. My father's warning.
I was entering the lion's den.
The imperial carriage rolled to a halt beneath the towering gates of the Celestine Palace. A sea of silver lanterns lit the courtyard, their light reflected in polished marble and opulent silk gowns. Trumpets blared in ceremonial welcome, but all I heard was my own heartbeat.
The door opened. A footman bowed.
"Lady Aria Valemire."
I stepped down, the full skirt of my gown billowing like a flame, and caught sight of my father and the Duke near the entrance. My father offered his arm with a practiced smile—but the Duke, Duke Caelan Ravencourt, barely looked at me.
His eyes—cold, pale, unreadable—swept over me without pause. Still, the heat of that single glance struck like a blade. I flinched before I could stop myself.
"You took long enough," my father said under his breath.
"This dress wasn't designed for speed," I replied, nodding at the folds of fabric.
He didn't laugh.
"We'll speak with Minister Elenore, Viscount Merek, and the Prince tonight," he said. "You are to observe everything."
"I thought I was just here to smile and stay quiet."
"You're here because you must be." His tone turned cold. "The Duke and I cannot do this alone. You are the Valemire heir. If I fall, there is no one else."
I glanced toward the Duke, who stood silent, unreadable.
"You're the Duke," I said. "Surely you don't need me here."
My father cut in sharply. "It's not a request.You are the Duke. The contracts are delicate. I need you there."
The Duke's voice came like frost. "She's not ready."
He didn't even look at me.
My father replied evenly, "Neither were we, at her age."
And just like that, the conversation was over.
The ballroom was a masterpiece of imperial arrogance. Dozens of golden chandeliers lit the marble floor, and music spun from strings and whispered tension. Nobles danced and gossiped like wolves in silk.
I let my father guide me through the room. We spoke briefly with Lord Brenian and Lady Marentelle, their smiles sharp as their ambitions.
Then—
"Lady Valemire."
The voice was deep, smooth, unmistakable.
I turned and found myself face-to-face with the Crown Prince.
He had a cascade of golden hair and storm-gray eyes that glittered like steel under starlight. He wore navy and black with the ease of someone who could command without saying a word.
"I am Prince Elion," he said, extending a hand. "Dance with me."
My breath caught. The Emperor's son. I barely managed a curtsy. "Your Highness."
He swept me into the dance without waiting.
"You're quiet," he noted as we turned.
"I'm observing."
"Good. That's what smart people do."
As we twirled across the ballroom, I felt it—that sharp, freezing presence.
The Duke.
I didn't have to look to know he was watching. I could feel it in my spine, in the prickle along my skin. I was being evaluated.
But I didn't falter.
When the dance ended, Prince Elion bowed. "We'll speak again, Lady Aria."
I curtsied and moved aside, only to be pulled into conversations with Lady Calvia, known for her tongue as much as her power, and Lord Dathan, who watched me like a hawk studying a rival.
And then the room shifted.
The Duke was walking toward me.
His expression was unreadable. His voice smooth as cold steel.
"Lady Valemire," he said. "Dance with me."
My stomach dropped. Before I could protest—before I could even breathe—he extended his hand.
I placed mine in his.
And all I could think was:
I can't fall in love with a Duke.
But it was far too late to turn away now.