The orchestra struck the first note like a challenge.
Amara barely had time to brace herself before Prince Kofi was standing in front of her, one gloved hand extended, a smile playing at his lips.
"Shall we, Your Highness?"
"I'd rather negotiate with a crocodile."
"Charming. But the cameras demand romance."
She placed her hand in his anyway, because royal protocol was a merciless thing. As he led her onto the dance floor, a thousand eyes followed, hungry for scandal.
"You dance well," she said.
"I'm better at making people uncomfortable."
"That's obvious."
His hand settled at her waist, warm and dangerously sure. Their steps aligned with irritating perfection, bodies moving like they'd practiced together, which they most certainly had not.
"You don't hate me as much as you pretend," he murmured.
"I'm considering it."
"Ah. A woman who takes hatred seriously."
They turned, skirts and coats brushing, the music wrapping around them like a secret.
"Why are you here?" Amara whispered. "And don't insult me with a diplomatic answer."
His eyes darkened. "Careful, Princess. You might not like the truth."
"I already don't like you."
"That's not what your pulse says."
Her breath caught. The man was infuriating.
"You're arrogant."
"You're curious."
"Absolutely not."
"Then why haven't you pulled away?"
She hated that she couldn't answer.
The music slowed, forcing them closer. His breath brushed her ear. "This dance will be blamed for many things."
"Let it be blamed for your eventual exile."
"I was hoping for your downfall instead."
The song ended. Applause erupted. They separated too quickly, both unsettled.
Kofi bowed. "Until next time, Princess."
Amara watched him walk away, her heart traitorously loud in her chest.
This was not how peace treaties were supposed to begin