What's the scoop?

Tobias sat with a coffee in hand, doing his best to stay awake after his failed attempt to convince Sammy that a cozy family snuggle in bed would be the perfect way to spend the morning. Her chubby little hand grabbed his and led him away. Casey didn’t even have to say a word; her grin said it all - No use trying – Sammy’s had you wrapped around her finger since the day she was born.

In the living room, Sammy sat cross-legged on the rug, her curls still askew from sleeping, and her favorite stuffed toy, Bunny, in her hand. But it wasn’t Bunny she was talking to. No, it was her other partner in crime that had her attention.

“Pietro,” she called, her little voice full of wonder.

The fluffy Balinese cat stretched in the spot of sun he had been napping in, flicking his tail in momentary protest before he rose and padded lazily across the floor, flopping down at Sammy’s feet. Tobias had to laugh. That cat didn’t listen to anyone – it looked like Tobias wasn’t the only one under the toddler’s spell.

“How do you do that, Sammy?” he asked.

She tilted her cherub-like face up at him, brows knitting together. “Do what, Daddy?”

“Get Pietro to listen to you. If I had called him over this early in the morning, he’d hiss at me and go back to sleep.”

“Ooohhh!” Sammy giggled with delight. “That’s easy, Daddy! Magic kisses!”

Tobias lowered his mug – this was a story he had to hear. “Magic... kisses?”

“Yes, I give him magic kisses.”          

He tried not to laugh, but the smile gave him away. “Really? And how do these magic kisses work?”

“Like this!” she declared. With exaggerated flair, she leaned forward and planted a kiss right on Pietro’s head, humming a loud “Muuuah!” just to make sure the spell would ‘hold’.

The cat barely stirred, but Tobias swore he heard him purr. Maybe there was magic in it after all.

“There!” Sammy beamed with pride. “All done. Now, Pietro is sparkly – you see the sparkles, right, Daddy?”

“Oh,” he nodded seriously. “Of course!”

“Those sparkles will make him happy forever, so he always listens to me. No one else can give him magic kisses – not yet. Maybe one day Brooke will, too. But she’s too little. Only big girls can give magic kisses.”

“I see,” Tobias smiled, lowering himself to the rug and wrapping an arm around Samantha, holding his daughter close.

He wondered if that’s what had done it to him, too – the magic kisses. But, in his case, they didn’t belong to Sammy alone. Brooke was still too young to pucker up, but he was no less under her spell. And there was their mother – he changed his life on a dime after one kiss from Casey years before. It's no wonder his daughters also possessed this fairy dust.

Just then, Casey came down the stairs with Brooke in her arms. She settled beside them on the floor. “What’s going on here?”

“Oh, just a little witchcraft,” Tobias smirked.

Casey raised a brow, amused. “Witchcraft?”

“Yes. Sammy’s enchanting Pietro with magic kisses – that’s how she has him completely under her control.”

“Oh, I see,” Casey teased. “And where did she learn how to do that?”

“She didn’t learn it,” Tobias said, grinning as he pulled his wife close and kissed the top of her head. “She inherited it.”

Casey laughed, startling baby Brooke before soothing her again. “So, she inherited these magical kisses from you?”

“From me?” he scoffed. “Oh, no. They definitely come from you. I mean, you’ve had me under your spell since our very first kiss.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Casey protested. “Maybe not our first kiss... I seem to remember it taking a little longer than that.”

“Nope,” he said. “It only looked that way because I had some work to do - I had to change my ways. But there was never any doubt in my mind - the moment you kissed me, I knew I’d be under your spell for life.”

“Daddy!” Sammy piped up, reminding them she was listening. “Is that true? Does Mommy have magic kisses, too?”

“Well, let’s test that idea,” he said, sitting up straighter. “Pietro – come here, boy! Come on – come to Daddy.”

The cat cracked one eye open, glared at him with disdain, and promptly flopped his head back down with a sigh.

Tobias’s eyes flickered to Casey, who understood what needed to be done. “Pietro,” she whispered in a sing-song voice. “Come here, sweet boy! Come on over by Mommy.”

To no one’s surprise, Pietro immediately hopped up, trotted over, and leapt into Casey’s lap - nudging Brooke just enough to make room for himself. Casey laughed, stroking his silky fur.

Tobias glanced at Sammy. “Well, sweetheart, what do you think?”

Sammy’s eyes widened as she took it all in. “So all the girls in our family have magic kisses?”

“Well, everyone except your Grandma Vivian,” Tobias laughed. “The jury’s out on her.”

“Tobias,” Casey scolded, playfully nudging her husband.

Tobias pulled all three of his girls into his arms. “But every single one of you has magic kisses. And that’s why your daddy will be enchanted forever.”

Casey met his gaze with a knowing smile, and with Pietro purring and both girls nestled close, they had no doubt that magic was real and that they were blessed beyond measure to live it every single day.

Third-year student Tobias Carrick was a fixture here, and tonight, he was fully in his element - confidently leaning against the bar, beer in hand, and his blue eyes glistening in the low light as he fixed his signature grin on the brunette he’d been tracking from the moment she walked in.

Ethan sat back and sipped his whiskey as he watched the show unfurl before him. He’d seen Tobias’s routine more times than he could count, but it never failed to amuse him. And for a moment, things unfolded exactly as they always did.

Her name was Brenda – interest apparent in her hazel eyes from the moment she approached. It didn’t take long before she was leaning in closely, coquettish smile firmly in place, giggling with far too much animation at everything he said. Tobias’s magic was working - she was charmed and he loved every second. He knew the scene by heart – banter, laughter, a touch of flattery, then he’d bring in the closer, and they’d be heading back to his place. It always worked, and tonight was no different – until it was.

It was just one joke. A mall one, maybe a little offhand, but it landed wrong. He saw it right away and attempted to recover, but instead of smoothing things over, he only dug himself in deeper. Ethan sat back and chuckled. FINALLY - for once the plot had changed and things were getting interesting.

“Unbelievable,” the beauty snapped. “Could you be more full of yourself?” She shoved past him, heels clicking on the warped floorboards as she stormed toward the exit.

If the incident hurt Tobias’s ego, he sure didn’t show it. He called after her, voice warm. “Come on, Brenda, you know I didn’t mean anything by it. Come back – I’ll make it worth your while.”

She spun on her heel, fire in her eyes, and spat, “Kiss my ass!”

The crowd rippled with laughter. Ethan nearly choked on his drink, grinning as he shook his head. “I always told you this day would come. That ol’ Carrick magic wasn’t going to last forever.”

Tobias turned back, unbothered, though one brow was arched. “You doubt me?” He said, raising his glass in a mock-toast. “Just wait, my friend. She’ll be back. They always come back.”

“You really believe that?” Ethan snickered.

“No,” Tobias said, smirk deepening. “I know that. Set a timer – 10 minutes - you’ll see. She’ll be here.”

Yet, for once, Tobias was wrong – it took fifteen minutes.

The door swung open, ushering in a cool breeze and one beautiful brunette. Her cheeks were still flushed, irritation still in her eyes, but she walked straight back to Tobias.

“Well, look who’s back,” he smiled. “You missed me after all.”

Brenda crossed her arms. “Shut up,” she said, though there was a teasing nature in her voice. “I just figured out a way you could make it up to me.”

“Oh, did you?” Tobias replied, his smile, downright scandalous. “Do tell…”

She leaned down and whispered something in his ear; by the widening smile on his lips, it was clear he approved.

Without a word he drained the last of his beer, slapping a twenty onto the bar. Extending his arm to her, he wore the grin of a man who knew he already won. “Let’s go.” He shot Ethan a look over his shoulder, it wordlessly screamed I told you so.

Ethan sighed, tossing back the rest of his whiskey. “One of these days, Carrick… your luck’s going to run out.”

“Perhaps,” Tobias smirked as the woman curled an arm around his. “But that day is not today.”

He almost called her then and there, but the sting of their argument was still fresh.

His brows furrowed as the words exchanged replayed in his head. And he wondered why she had chosen today—of all days—to light into him. She knew his father needed help, and not just with packing away Louise’s things.

Alan Ramsey had never stopped loving the woman who’d walked out on him decades ago. Watching her health deteriorate these past months had gutted him, forcing him to face his own mortality.

If there was anyone in Ethan’s life who understood him better than he did himself, it was Cassie. She alone knew how deeply his mother’s abandonment had scarred him. How Louise’s return, followed by the relentless cycle of rehab and relapse, had defined his adult relationship with her.

He didn’t need—or want—to talk about it because rehashing it wouldn’t change the grief and regrets (and yes, even guilt) he felt now that his mother was gone and he couldn’t change anything.

Control what you can control. Ethan’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.

Cassie should know this already!

Lightning split the sky, a silver streak slicing the clouds in two. Thunder followed, shaking the rest apart—a mirror of his mood.

But as quickly as the sound faded, so did his anger.

When it came to Louise, Ethan’s reactions were always visceral. The logical thinking he prided himself on deserted him—just as his mother had when he was eleven.

And Cassie understood it was never good to let him sink into the quicksand of what could have been and what was never meant to be. When she pushed him to face his worst fears and irrational thoughts, it came from a place of love, not judgment.

Because Ethan needed her to pull him back from the dark. No one else in his life had ever broken through his defenses like Cassie Valentine.

And it was time he stopped being stubborn about it.

Through the rain-streaked windshield, he spotted an exit to a side street that looked marginally less clogged than the one he was on. He flicked on his blinker, craning his neck to check for an opening before edging toward the turn.

A horn blasted. Tires screeched. The crunch of metal followed, and momentum slammed him forward, skidding across the slick asphalt.

Then everything went dark.

Ethan felt the ache at the base of his neck before his eyes fluttered open. His face was pressed against the steering wheel, a thin trickle of blood sliding from a cut on his forehead. He wiped it away before it could reach his eyes.

No airbags had deployed, he noticed quickly. So it couldn’t have been too bad a crash.

Still, the cacophony of sounds invaded his senses—engines and horns, panicked screams and shouts—tangled with the steady rat-a-tat of the rain on the pavement.

Lifting his head slowly, he winced as the seatbelt dug into his ribs. He fumbled for the buckle and released it. Inhaling and exhaling painfully, he coughed as air filled his lungs.

Just how long had he been out?

His first thought was of Cassie and the need to hear her voice. Ethan glanced around the car’s interior for his phone, but it wasn’t in sight. He lowered his head to search for it under the seats, only to be met with a sharp spike of pain at his temples that made him flinch.

Through the rain-streaked windshield, red-and-blue lights bled into view, their blurred glow growing sharper as an ambulance screeched to a stop. The siren was so close it felt like his skull might split apart.

As a diagnostician, he was used to taking quick stock of patients. So, he ran a diagnostics on himself.

His chest ached, likely from the snap of the seatbelt when he’d been thrown forward. No blurry vision, so he didn’t think he had a concussion. The headache could be from the contusion on his forehead. The cut wasn’t deep and the bleeding had already stopped.

Ethan reached for the door handle, hissing when he had to put some muscle to wrangle it open, and added a possible muscle sprain in the shoulder to his list of injuries.

He was fine, he reasoned, as he climbed out of the car and rain soaked through his coat.

Reckoned the car behind him had crashed into his, pushing it forward, he took stock of his vehicle. The front was dented from where he’d swerved into a pole while the trunk was crunched inward.

All in all, he’d had a lucky escape. But based on the scene unfolding around him, he couldn’t say the same of others.

Forgetting his own aches and pains, he switched to doctor mode and crouched to check on the pedestrians and shocked drivers on the pavement.

He’d do what we could to help and then head home. He needed to apologize to his wife—and show her how grateful he was for her love and patience.

“Dr. Ramsey?”

Ethan didn’t think he’d been at it long when he looked up at an EMT calling out his name. He recognized the other man, a regular at Edenbrook’s emergency department, and flipped through his mental rolodex for a name.

“Johnson,” he acknowledged with a nod.

“Sit down, and let me have a look at that cut on your head.” The paramedic quickly scanned him for injuries. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I’m fine,” he said unconcerned, waving the helping hand away. “This woman,” he pointed at the pedestrian he’d just examined, “is in shock but otherwise unhurt. As for this man….”

Impassive in the face of the chaos around him, Ethan rattled off a quick triage summary to Johnson, trusting the other man to remember details as they moved down the pavement.

He shoved a hand through his wet hair, pushing a lock off his forehead, then turned to say something. The wave of dizziness hit him without warning. He stumbled, arm shooting out for support—but there was nothing to catch.

Johnson lunged forward and grabbed him.

“Yeah, you’re not alright, doc.”

Johnson hauled him toward the waiting ambulance, shouting instructions to his partner. Ethan staggered once, twice; then the lights and sirens dissolved into nothing.

----------------

All Fics & Edits: @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @jerzwriter @kyra75 @lady-calypso @loreofyore @potionsprefect @quixoticdreamer16 @snoopdogcone @tessa-liam

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

The first stop on the crawl was a cozy Irish bar tucked in a quiet little street in Back Bay, the kind of place with Guinness signs in the windows and dark wood that gleamed under dim, barely there lights. Tobias gallantly held the door open for his wife, his face lighting up as his eyes traced her curves, barely hidden under her burgundy boucle dress. That hadn't gone unnoticed.

“What are you doing, Dr. Carrick?” she asked, lashes fluttering with mock innocence.

“I’m checking out the hottest woman in the bar,” he drawled. “Kind of hoping I’ll get lucky and take her home tonight.”  

“Oh, really?” She teased, running her finger over the stubble on his jaw. “I hear she’s a sure thing. Are you sure you don’t want more of a... challenge? The redhead at the jukebox looks promising, too.”

He glanced over his shoulder, giving a solemn nod. “Not bad,” he admitted, then turned back, voice dropping. “But why go for silver when I’ve already got gold?”

He leaned in, their lips a whisper apart, when a swinging door and a blast of cold air pulled their attention.

“Jesus, are you two at it already?” Ethan groaned, shaking snow from his coat and placing it on the back of a stool. "I knew I should’ve stayed home with my Macallan.”

“Here, here!” Jackie chimed in, biting into a Bavarian pretzel. “But on an up note, these two will make me queasy long before the tequila does – so it could save me some money.”

“Really?” Tobias laughed, motioning to the bartender to bring a fresh round.

“Really,” Sienna grinned. “How about a new rule tonight? You two have to keep it PG for once. PG-13 if you absolutely must, but nothing beyond that.”

“Yeah, right!” Bryce chuckled, lifting a fresh pint to his lips. “They wouldn’t make it an hour.”

“What?” Casey frowned. “You really don’t think we can do it?”

“Oh, I know you can’t,” Jackie declared.

Bryce smirked, peeling a twenty from his wallet. “Let’s put our money where our mouths are. After all, we all know where their mouths will be...”

Tobias raised a brow. “You people act like we’re animals! We’re an old married couple now, have a baby at home... we know a thing or two about restraint.”

Aurora, who had been sipping her beer quietly, laughed. “If you knew a thing or two about restraint, you wouldn’t have a baby at home.”

“Hey,” Ethan deadpanned. “Leave my goddaughter out of this – That’s the only thing Carrick’s ever done right.”

Tobias leaned down to whisper something in Casey’s ear, and she flushed pink – a grin stretching on her lips as her handsome husband kissed her temple – not even her lips - but their friends were groaning.

“Pool’s open,” Bryce reminded. “Twenty bucks says they’ll be making baby number two within the hour.”

“Hopefully not in our line of sight,” Jackie groused.

~~~~~

They headed to bar number two, several blocks away. A loud sports bar with dozens of TVs scattered across the walls, one highlighting every local team and beyond. They squeezed into a wooden booth, shouting to hear each other over the noise.

Casey sipped her drink slowly, aware of the eyes on them and the growing pot of cash – she was determined to keep temptation at bay. But Tobias was less restrained. His arm was draped over her, his thumb tracing patterns under the shoulder of her dress. It only took one more whisky, then his grin turned wolfish.

“You promised to behave,” she reminded him, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her amusement.

“I have behaved,” he insisted, his gaze dipping to her neckline before flicking up to meet her eyes again. “But it’s hard, baby. So… hard.”

Casey snorted mid-sip, nearly choking on her beer as Jackie smacked the table. “Christ almighty! Do you two even hear yourselves?”

“You brought this on yourselves,” Casey shot back, laughing. “Trying to stop us from being us—it was always going to lead to pent-up depravity.”

“It’s been an hour!” Jackie wailed. “Not even an hour!”

“Exactly,” Tobias agreed, his eyes glazed over, whisky still lingering on his tongue. “And I won’t stand for this cruel and unusual punishment anymore.”

Casey slammed her empty shot glass on the table, wiping her lip with the back of her hand. “Hear, hear!” she cheered, her grin wide, tipsy delight radiating from her as she wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck.

Before anyone could stop them, Tobias pulled her in, their mouths crashing in a kiss that was far too hungry, far too naughty for public consumption. It wasn’t neat - it was searing, lips crashing, teeth grazing, tongues tangled with an urgency that was only fueled by too many drinks and too many moments pretending they could keep their hands off each other. Casey laughed into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, one hand sliding into her hair, the other braced against the small of her back. They showed no sign of stopping, deepening until it was less of a kiss and more breathless, shamelessly indulgent claim. Mine – all mine.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless and laughing, the table erupted in groans and scattered applause.

“All right! Pay up,” Bryce beamed, extending a hand. Tobias shoved a bill at him without looking.

Casey pulled back, with a mock scowl. “We lost,” she pouted.  

Tobias shrugged, eyes sparkling. “Well worth it,” he grinned, sliding an arm around her waist and bending her back right there in the booth, kissing her again with drunken abandon.

Their friends groaned in unison.

“God help us,” Jackie muttered. “How many more pubs do we have to hit?”

“Three,” Ethan sighed, lifting his glass. “It’s going to be a very long night.”

[Mal Volari x Daenarya Blades 1 + Beyond] [Mal’s Orphanage] [Mal Volari x Daenarya Blades 2 + 3 AU]

Pairings: Mal Volari x Daenarya (F!OC) Book: Blades of Light & Shadow Word Count: < 500 Rating/Warnings: General, slightest hint for mature at the end A/N: July 25th is my Mal's birthday.

Synopsis: Mal and Daenarya celebrate his birthday.

She threaded her fingers through his hair as they spun across the floor. She knew this wouldn't have been his preferred birthday venue, but being heroes of the realm brought certain attention and fanfare. Celebrating the legendary Mal Volari was something that they couldn't avoid... and he might not entirely dislike all the attention. He may be a hero, but he wasn't above pickpocketing nobles when the situation presented itself, and it was his birthday after all, so they really shouldn't be surprised he used his time that way.

“Did you make a wish?” Daenarya teased, thinking back to him blowing out the candles on his cake earlier, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the music. “A diamond? A chest of gold?” Her teeth grazed his neck as she placed a playful kiss just below his ear. "Something more private?"

Mal smirked, his brow rising. “I’m not telling.”

She pouted, "Fine, be mysterious. I'm sure you've swiped enough treasure tonight to fund the orphanage for months."

But before she could continue, he swept her off the floor in an effortless motion, lifting her into his arms.

His eyes softened as he held her gaze, a smile drawn across his features. "Gods, you're beautiful, Daenarya." 

"Flatterer!" She wagged her brow as she pressed a gentle kiss on his nose, her hair cascading against the side of his face.

"You want to know what I wished for?"

"It would help me know what else to get you!"

He shook his head lightly,  “How could I wish for anything when I already have everything I need? You. The kids. Our orphanage.”

Her thumb brushed tenderly across his jaw. Her eyes shimmered under the glow of the chandeliers.

"I've got more than I've ever thought I could want," he continued.

Her lips brushed against his, savoring the moment. The ballroom faded away until it was just the two of them. The others in the room didn't matter. This was all that mattered—them. 

He kissed her again and again, holding her in his arms, letting the moment linger as long as it could. She was the greatest gift he didn't know he needed. The life they had built hadn't come without heartache, but it was theirs, and he wouldn't change a moment of it. 

As their kissing slowed, he lowered her to the ground, keeping her near as they continued to move with the song. His voice was a whisper in her ear, as his lips curled into a devilish smirk. "Though, I wouldn't argue with something a little more private." 

Chapter Summary –As the Coronation Ball continues late in the evening, Drake continues his pursuit of Riley Brooks, a newcomer from America, which was a breath of fresh air in his world. Leo arrives with his wife, Katie, to celebrate his brother. Madeleine takes the opportunity to confront her former betrothed. Hana recognizes a connection with Madeleine.

Words: 10k

A/N1: Bethany Beaumont, Maxwell’s mother, is originally from the U.S. and is Barthelemy Beaumont’s second wife. Annabelle Beaumont (deceased) is Bertrand’s mother.

A/N2: ‘Social Season’ in this AU series refers to a traditional period in the spring/summer for royalty and members of the court to take part in Balls, dinner parties and charity events.

A/N3: Heartfelt thanks to @Selina012 for joining me in writing ideas and with dialogue/content for this chapter and series.

A/N4: Thank you @selina012 for pre-reading

 The splendor of the Cordonian Royal Palace was on full display tonight, reaching its zenith on the night of King Liam Rys's coronation ball.

The very air itself seemed thick and sweet from the grand celebration, filled with a heady fragrance woven from high-end perfumes, century-old antique wood wax, and the thousands of white roses air-shipped from the royal greenhouses. Massive crystal chandeliers hung like a frozen, falling river of stars from the vaulted ceiling, which was painted with myths of creation. They cast millions of soft, brilliant rays of light onto the gleaming white marble floor below, illuminating the magnificent attire and glittering jewels of every guest.

This evening, Cordonia’s elite—those with influence, riches, and noble heritage—assembled together. As the orchestra performed, guests exchanged hushed conversations about politics, commerce, and upcoming ambitions before heading to the dance floor.

In the centre of the ballroom, Liam stood tall and confident, but his composure softened instantly when he glanced at the woman beside him.

Sophia Taylor, his newly betrothed fiancée and the future Queen of Cordonia, stood charmingly at his side. Her auburn hair was swept up into an elegant yet slightly informal chignon, with a few wisps framing her face and accentuating the swan-like grace of her neck. She wore no overly extravagant jewels with her exquisite scarlet ball gown ... only the diamond engagement ring Liam had given her. It glittered on her finger, quiet yet resolute, as if announcing her new status to the world.

Sophie listened to the opening strands of the next waltz, her hand warmly enveloped in his. She could feel his fingers give her a gentle, reassuring squeeze whenever a guest's gaze lingered on her for too long. It was his silent way of telling her, "Don't be nervous. I'm here." She would return a soft smile, and in that silent exchange lay a bond of love and understanding more eloquent than any grand declaration. One possessed a dignified and composed nature, whereas the other embodied grace and resolve; together, they made an ideal match when the king chose his queen.

Sophie had to admit, as she glanced up at her handsome fiancé, that she felt a sense of pride as the center of attention ... but her heart still fluttered in her chest. Her reality forever changed from this day forward.

How could anyone live up to these expectations? She knew everyone was looking to her to make the right impression, but what if she couldn’t?

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

‘You can do this and know what needs to be done.’ Sophie chided to herself silently.

"If I may say, your majesty," a voice said, drawing Liam's attention. A distinguished-looking older man bowed his head to Liam. "We all look forward to your, and the future queen's rule."

"Thank you," Liam smiled, nodding graciously.

"If I may, your Majesty..." A young, attractive woman spoke up. "It would be my honor if you saved a dance for me tonight." She batted her eyes, smiling sweetly at him.

Sophie's heart skipped a beat, but she stayed calm. She could tell that the woman's intentions were nothing but professional and was not a threat to her relationship. She knew how to read people, and the woman was simply a politician with aspirations for the crown, and that was nothing new.

Liam glanced at Sophie. "I would, but I've promised all of my dances tonight to Lady Sophia," he said, giving Sophie's hand another squeeze. "I'm sure you'll find many other eligible suitors, though."

"Ah, of course, your majesty. Congratulations on your engagement." She turned to Sophie, giving her a polite smile and bow.

Sophie returned with a polite nod and responded, "Thank you."

As soon as the woman had left, Liam leaned closer and whispered into Sophie's ear, "She's married, by the way."

"I had a feeling," Sophie replied dryly.

Liam gave her a wry grin. "She's also a member of the royal family in a neighboring kingdom, which might cause an incident. Not to mention, her husband is the prime minister. It would be political suicide."

Sophie couldn't help but laugh. "Then, it's a good thing you're a one-woman man," she replied, and leaned up to kiss his cheek.

Liam grinned. "Always."

"Your Majesty," another man spoke up. "I hope you don't mind my asking, but do you plan on taking an official engagement portrait together soon? I'd love to get a copy for my own collection."

"I do, yes. We've got a photographer coming to the palace soon. I'm sure we could get you a copy."

"Thank you. That would be wonderful. You two make such a fine couple."

"You're too kind," Sophie said, giving him a smile.

On the other side of the ballroom, near the long tables laden with exquisite desserts, Maxwell Beaumont, a camera in one hand and a bubbling cocktail in the other, weaved through his circle of friends.

"...So, I told him, if you have a problem with my taste in party music, you are more than welcome to go listen to classical symphonies in Bertrand's study all night. I guarantee the atmosphere there is sufficiently 'solemn'!" he recounted with dramatic flair, making everyone around him roar with laughter.

Daniel stood beside him, shaking his head in mock exasperation, though his lips were curved in an affectionate smile. He wore a chic black suit, an interesting contrast to Maxwell's slightly ostentatious suit with its silver embroidery. "Max, I'm willing to bet Duke Bertrand's study does not contain a weeping violinist who's sad because he can't comprehend your 'avant-garde' electronic music."

"Hey! That's art!" Maxwell protested, before leaning closer to Daniel and lowering his voice. "But seriously, when the old-fashioned band takes a break, would you care to try a real dance with me?"

Daniel looked into his sparkling, hopeful eyes and laughingly stuffed a macaron into his mouth. "Talk to me again when you've convinced His Majesty to turn the royal ball into a disco."

Their playful banter and laughter were the most genuine and vibrant notes in the grand symphony of the evening.

Meanwhile, near the entrance to the terrace, Drake Walker and Riley leaned against a massive Roman column, watching the glittering world before them with the detached air of outsiders. The orchestra's music rose and fell, its graceful melody filling the air around them, but their thoughts were elsewhere.

"Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you'd never come to the palace?" Riley asked softly, glancing up at Drake. "I try not to."

"Why not?"

"Because I might have spent my life thinking the grass is greener somewhere else. Only to come back and realize the grass was green where I left it all along."

"Is that the truth?"

Drake turned his gaze away, "I only care about what's real," Drake said, taking a sip of his whiskey. The pungent liquid slid down his throat, leaving a bitter aftertaste. This coronation of King Liam, as his best friend, he should have been joyous, but his straightforward temper and candid nature made him feel out of place. Watching Liam and Sophie's tender affection, Maxwell and Daniel's flirtatious banter, he thought of Melanie and that extremely undignified breakup. He had once believed he had found someone to stand by his side, only to find out it was all a carefully calculated ruse. Only with Riley did he feel a sliver of ease. This woman from America, like him, had eyes that saw through pretense.

Riley sighed and looked down at her heels, the same pair she'd worn to the last event at the palace. She could feel Drake’s dark gaze lingering on her and felt the warmth creep up her neck.

"You should care, Drake," she said quietly. "Because no matter what, you're real. You're here, and I don't know what I'd do without you."

He paused, the words catching in his throat, then nodded. "And I don't know what I'd do without a certain smart, snarky, stubborn New Yorker."

Riley smirked. "Careful, Drake. Your heart's starting to show."

"Not much," he shrugged. "Just the part that's grateful."

"Yeah, yeah," she said, nudging his shoulder.

"Come on, Brooks. Let's grab another drink and a bite to eat."

"Lead the way."

A waiter walked past with a tray of champagne glasses, and they each took one, clinking their glasses together.

"To the new king," Drake said, raising his glass.

"To Liam. Long may he reign," Riley replied, and they both drank.

Riley watched Liam together with Sophie, who appeared comfortable in his presence.

"I was afraid it was going to end badly. But here they are, together. It's like she was born for this life." Drake responded.

"Maybe she was," Riley shrugged.

"Maybe."

"Are you alright, Drake?"

Drake shook his head and looked away. "No," he replied honestly.

"Well, I'm here for you, Drake," Riley said.

"You don't know what it means for me to hear that."

"Oh, please," she laughed.

"Brooks," Drake began, turning to her. "I think it's time we-"

Suddenly, a hush fell over the room, and they both turned their attention to the entrance.

...Except for one person.

"His Highness, Prince Leo Rys, and Lady Katie Rys."

Countess Madeleine Amaranth stood in the shadows of a grand column in the least conspicuous corner of the ballroom, nursing a glass of red wine she had barely touched. The light here was dim, the crowd sparse. It allowed her to keep a presence while avoiding, as much as possible, the probing eyes of certain members of the court.

She felt like a phantom, an anachronistic ghost from a bygone era, forced to attend the grand celebration of her own burial.

The expensive, custom-made hunter-green velvet gown she wore felt like a heavy shroud. The emeralds dotting the fabric glittered coldly in the dim light, mirroring the state of her heart.

All of this should have been hers.

This ball, this celebration, the coveted spot beside the King. She should have been the heroine of the evening, accepting congratulations and envy, planning her magnificent life as the future queen. But now, she was nothing. She was merely the "former" fiancée of the "former" Crown Prince. A joke. A discarded, obsolete symbol.

Her gaze then shot like a poisoned arrow across the crowd, landing on the scarlet figure. Sophia Taylor. The orphan from America, the girl who, with a bit of luck and a pretty face, had stolen the spotlight from her. Madeleine watched the happy smile on her face, saw the undisguised love in Liam's eyes as he looked at her, and felt a fire ignite in her stomach.

She didn't love Leo, not ever. Their engagement had been a transaction from the start, an alliance for family glory and political gain. What she craved was everything the title "Queen" entailed—power, status, and supreme honor. Leo had merely been the ladder to that throne. But now, Leo had kicked the ladder out from under her and pushed her off the cliff for good measure.

What she couldn't bear was how those who once flocked to her now avoided her like the plague. She could feel the stares of the other noble ladies. They would glance over nonchalantly; their eyes filled with a pity that reeked of schadenfreude. Their whispers, even from across the vast ballroom, seemed to reach her ears with perfect clarity.

"Look, it's Countess Madeliene...poor thing."

"Yes, I heard Prince Leo found some commoner girlfriend abroad and gave up the throne for her."

"Tsk, tsk, and she was so magnificent then, and now..."

These words were sharper than any blade.

Her eyes fell on Penelope and Kiara. Her former "friends," her most loyal "ladies-in-waiting." They were now laughing merrily with another, as if they had never known her. Madeleine remembered the month she'd locked herself away in her estate in Krona, refusing all visitors. She had thought they would worry, that they would persist. But they hadn't. After a few rebuffed attempts, they had given up completely. Their friendship, it turned out, was as fragile as her engagement.

Madeleine gripped her wine glass, the cool liquid doing nothing to quell the fire in her heart. She downed the crimson liquid in one go. The harsh alcohol burned her throat and ignited the last, desperate fuse of her sanity.

Just then, the orchestra's music shifted, and a slow, emotional waltz began to play. The herald announced in his magnetic voice, "And now, let us welcome with the warmest applause our esteemed King Liam, and his beautiful fiancée, Duchess Sophia Taylor, for their first dance of the evening!"

The chandeliers dimmed, and a single spotlight found Liam and Sophie in the center of the dancefloor. Liam gave Sophie an elegant bow, and she responded with a perfect curtsy. Then, they danced.

Their steps were flawless, every spin, every glance filled with love and a seamless connection. Sophie's red gown bloomed in the air like a vibrant, blossoming rose, and Liam's eyes never left her. The world seemed to stop just for them. They were the prince and princess from a fairy tale, the very embodiment of perfect love in everyone's eyes.

The crowd erupted into thunderous applause and murmurs of admiration.

But for Madeleine, that applause was the death knell of her own tragedy.

She watched the perfect couple in the center of the dance floor, blessed by all, admired by all. That piercing spotlight illuminated not only their happiness but also her own inescapable, monumental failure and humiliation.

Leo Rys.

The name was like a rusty key, shoved brutally into her heart and twisted. Why was he here? Hadn't he abandoned the throne, abandoned all of this, for his ridiculous pursuit of freedom? By what right, what audacity did he show his face at his brother's coronation ball?

Madeleine instinctively turned her head toward the dancefloor. And then, saw him. And the clothes he was wearing.

In that instant, her breath caught in her throat.

That uniform. She knew it to her bones. It was the very deep blue, gold-trimmed formal attire standing for the highest authority of the Cordonian Armed Forces. The golden sash was slung across his broad chest, the tasseled epaulets glittered with authority under the chandeliers, and the medals of honor pinned to his breast—she had straightened every single one of them for him herself in the past.

For the last five years, every time they had attended a major court event together, every time they had stood side-by-side as the future King and Queen consort to receive the fealty of their subjects, Leo had worn a uniform exactly like this. That uniform was the symbol of their status, the very embodiment of their shared future, the vessel for all of Madeleine's ambitions and dreams.

But now, he was wearing that uniform, which symbolized duty and tradition, and the woman beside him was not her.

His companion, this Katie, was a stark contrast to Cordonian court fashion, dressed in a deep yellow ballgown. Her face was lit with a brilliant, guileless smile, one hand linked naturally through Leo’s arm. And Leo himself wore a genuine, unprecedentedly relaxed smile.

It was a bitter, classic proverb come to life: the setting was the same, but the players had changed. He was wearing their uniform, but for another woman. He had already abdicated, he was no longer the Crown Prince, yet he chose to wear this specific attire, turning it into a grand, personal farce directed solely at her. Was he mocking her? Was this his way of showing everyone that even without the throne, even with a new woman at his side, he could still command this world, and that she, Madeleine, was nothing more than a disposable accessory?

In Madeleine's eyes, that uniform was no longer a symbol of honor. It was a costume, the most vicious costume, worn for the sole purpose of her humiliation.

She watched Leo lean down to whisper something to Katie, and Katie threw her head back and laughed, even playfully swatting his chest—her hand landing directly on the Star of the Holy Cross medal, the one she had once believed would forever signify her status as his consort.

That happiness, that casual intimacy, was a red-hot poker pressed against Madeleine’s heart. She felt the blood freeze in her veins.

How dare he? How dare he wear that uniform, with that woman, and come here, to this stage that should have been hers, to attend his brother’s coronation.

It was a complete repudiation of the last five years of her life, a cruel trampling of all her pride.

Madeleine’s rationality was being devoured, bit by bit. She watched them walk casually into the hall, heading not for the main table, but straight toward Drake and Riley, as if drawn by a magnet. She saw Drake’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise before he greeted Leo with a brotherly slap on the back. She saw Riley embrace Katie warmly, as if they were old friends.

So, everyone knew.

Everyone accepted it.

Only she, Madeleine, was kept in the dark, cast out. She had become a complete and utter outsider.

Her breathing grew ragged, her chest heaving. Something inside her snapped. The string of reason and pride, stretched taut for so long, had finally broken. The storm was about to break.

To Madeleine, the spotlight on Liam and Sophie felt like public judgment. Each illuminated moment was a reminder of her defeat. Watching them dance, Sophie’s red dress stung her pride, and the applause echoed her loss.

Madeleine’s body stood rigid in the shadows of the column. The cold marble was the only thing that felt real. She forced her gaze away from the nauseatingly perfect couple, searching for an escape. She saw, in the distance, Penelope and Kiara chatting and laughing with several other ladies of the court. Kiara even gracefully covered her mouth with her hand as she laughed at some joke. They didn't look at her, not even once. It was as if she, Madeleine Amaranth, the woman who had been their inseparable companion, the one who had co-reigned over the core of the court's social circle, had simply become invisible air.

A familiar, acidic taste of betrayal rose in her throat. She remembered the month she had locked herself away in her manor, refusing to see anyone. Their visits had ceased after the third refusal. So, this was the shelf life of their friendship, its end date engraved on the back of the title "The Queen-to-be."

She took a deep breath, ordering herself to remain calm. She was still the countess of her duchy, she told herself, her bloodline still noble. She could not be defeated so easily. She needed to re-engage, to prove to everyone that even without Leo, without the title of Queen, she was still Countess Madeleine Amaranth of Fydelia, a woman not to be trifled with.

She straightened the non-existent creases on her hunter-green velvet gown, squared her shoulders, and plastered a well-rehearsed smile of detached elegance onto her face. She took a step, intending to join a circle of barons and viscounts discussing the safe and tedious topic of horses and hunting.

"Good evening, Lord Arnault," she began, her voice steady, trying to merge with their conversation.

The young baron she addressed started, as if spooked by a sudden phantom. "Oh—oh, good evening, Lady...Countess Madeleine," he stammered. The others in his circle shot her awkward, fleeting glances, and their conversation died. A suffocating silence descended upon the small group.

They were pitying her. Or rather, they were savoring her predicament.

Madeleine felt her cheeks burn. She tried to think of something to say to break the dreadful impasse, but her mind was a blank. Just then, a slight commotion at the grand entrance, followed by the herald's voice, rescued her from this invisible pillory.

She could bear it no longer.

She felt like a volcano about to erupt, the magma of her rage churning within. She set her wine glass down, the heavy crystal making a dull thud against the marble tabletop. Gathering her gown, she pushed through the crowd, step by step, making her way towards Leo.

Her gait was steady, each step landing on a shard of her own dignity. The surrounding guests sensed the unusual atmosphere, parting for her as she passed. The music seemed to fade, and all eyes focused on her, filled with curiosity, surprise, and anticipation.

She reached Leo. He had his back to her, laughing about something with Drake.

"Leo."

Madeleine spoke in a quiet, cold voice that immediately silenced the conversation.

Leo’s laughter died. He turned around slowly. When he saw Madeleine's face, twisted with fury, the smile vanished from his own, replaced by an expression of weary annoyance, as if he had been expecting this.

He said nothing.

He glanced at her briefly, his expression uninterested, then resumed talking to Drake as if Madeleine wasn’t even there.

This utter dismissal was more lethal than any vicious words could ever be. It was like an invisible hand, closing around Madeleine's throat, choking off the accusations and condemnations she had prepared.

"How dare you!" After a moment of suffocation, she finally found her voice, but it was made shriller by the humiliation of being ignored. "How dare you show up here dressed like that! At his—at your brother's coronation ball, wearing that uniform, with… her!"

Leo still did not look at her. He even turned his body slightly, shielding Katie more completely by his side, and continued his hushed conversation with his friends as if Madeleine's shriek were just an irritating bit of feedback in the background music.

"Countess Madeleine," he said simply, his tone implying, "what are you doing here?"

"How dare you," Madeleine's voice began to tremble, but she fought to control it, her eyes fixed on the medals on his chest. "How dare you show up here dressed like that. At his—at your brother's coronation ball, wearing that uniform, with… her." She used all her strength not to lose her composure on the last word.

Katie's smile faded, and she looked with confusion at this hostile woman, instinctively moving closer to Leo.

"I thought you would have at least a shred of shame, Leo," Madeleine’s voice grew louder, drawing more attention. "You abandoned your duty, your kingdom, your family… and your betrothal! You've turned the uniform that stands for Cordonia's highest honor into a costume to entertain your new lover! You've made a mockery of everyone, and then you stroll in here as if nothing happened, to celebrate your despicable 'freedom'?"

Leo's brow furrowed tightly. Not from guilt, but from sheer annoyance. "I suggest you lower your voice, Madeleine. This is Liam's coronation ball. Don't make a scene."

"A scene?" Madeleine laughed, a hysterical sound that was sharp and mournful. "I'm making a scene? Isn't my very existence right now a scene of your making?! You have turned me into the biggest joke in all of Cordonia! You have reduced me from the future queen to a cast-off woman whispered about behind cupped hands! And now you have the gall to tell me not to 'make a scene'? What right do you have?!"

Her voice echoed in the grand ballroom. Even the distant orchestra had stopped playing. The entire hall fell silent, and everyone held their breath, watching the epicenter of the royal storm.

Sophie and Liam had approached, Liam’s face grim. He started to step forward, but Sophie gently held him back. She shook her head, signaling him not to interfere. This was a reckoning between Leo and Madeleine, one that had to be seen through.

Madeleine’s chest heaved. She stared at Leo with bloodshot eyes as if she wanted to tear him apart. "You ruined everything! You never even gave me a formal apology, not a single explanation! You just vanished, and then you show up with her! Tell me, is watching me suffer, watching me be pitied and ridiculed by everyone, the most thrilling part of your 'grand adventure'?!"

Faced with her desperate accusations, Leo's expression remained utterly blank. He watched her without anger, without guilt, only with a deep, profound weariness and detachment, the way one might watch a stranger having a tantrum.

He finally spoke, his voice so calm it was cruel.

"This was never about you, Countess Madeleine."

"It was never about you. It was about me. About the person I refused to become, and the life I refused to live. You were simply a part of that life. A symbol I had to shed. And now, I have."

He paused, then delivered the final blow.

"Now, if you are finished, please step aside. We have friends to greet."

With that, he didn't spare her another glance. He put a gentle, firm hand on Katie's shoulder and guided her around Madeleine, as if she were nothing more than a pillar in his way, an inconvenient piece of furniture.

In that instant, Madeleine felt her entire world shatter.

Leo's indifference was more wounding than any vicious words could ever be. It was a complete and utter dismissal from the very core of his being. He couldn't even be bothered to argue with her, because wasting emotion on her was, to him, a superfluous effort.

She was left standing there, all alone, under the collective gaze of the entire court. Those stares were like a thousand needles, piercing her from every direction. She heard the stifled gasps, the snickers of schadenfreude, the silent looks of pity.

All her pride, all her pretense, was annihilated in that moment.

The wine glass in her hand, which she hadn't realized was empty, trembled. She tried to set it down on a passing waiter's tray, but her hand slipped.

The wine glass in her hand, which she hadn't realized was empty, trembled. She tried to set it down on a passing waiter's tray, but her hand slipped.

A choked, guttural sob, like that of a wounded animal, escaped from the depths of her throat.

She couldn't take it anymore.

She clapped her hands over her face and turned. Gathering her heavy, hunter-green skirt, she ran, heedless of her grace, bolting for the ballroom's grand doors, leaving all the glamour, all the stares, and all the humiliation behind her.

----------------

The sharp, crystalline sound of the shattering glass seemed to hang in the air, a final, jarring note that had abruptly silenced the magnificent symphony of the celebration. The entire grand hall plunged into an eerie, suffocating silence. The lilting waltz had stopped mid-bar; the musicians looked at one another, instruments in hand, then glanced helplessly at their conductor. The sounds of a successful party—the chatter, the laughter, the clinking of glasses—had all been vacuumed out of the room in an instant.

All that remained was silence. An awkward, heavy silence, thick with shock and curiosity.

Every eye was instinctively drawn to the small scene of devastation. On the mirror-like white marble floor, the scarlet wine spread like a startling pool of blood amidst the countless glittering fragments of crystal. It wasn't just a broken glass; it was Madeleine's dignity, shattered on the floor.

A quick-witted palace attendant, his steps nearly soundless, glided over. With a silver dustpan and brush in his gloved hands, he swiftly and professionally cleared away the debris. Another attendant knelt on the floor with a soft white cloth, carefully wiping away the red stain, trying to erase this unseemly drama from the very floorboards that symbolized royal glory.

King Constantine's face was an unreadable mask, but his narrowed eyes and tightly pressed lips betrayed his deep displeasure. Queen Regina sighed softly, a complex, almost pitying emotion flickering in her eyes. In the end, it was Liam, the new King, who gave the conductor a calm, reassuring nod.

As if granted a pardon, the conductor at once raised his baton. A new piece of music, more subdued and cautious than before, tentatively began to fill the hall.

The tension in the room eased, and the guests resumed their conversations in hushed tones. Their attention shifted away from the future of the new King and turned instead to the recent developments involving the former crown prince’s fiancée.

The scandal had now replaced Liam and Sophie's perfect dance as the evening's most talked-about 'entertainment.'

"Oh, my goodness..." Penelope whispered, her voice trembling. "That... that was just dreadful! I've never seen Madeleine like that. She looked... she looked as if she was going mad."

Beside her, Lady Kiara Theron, the diplomat's daughter, was far more composed. She simply raised her champagne flute and took a delicate sip, her gaze indifferent as she watched the spot where Madeleine had disappeared, as if seeing the predictable conclusion of a play she had seen many times before.

"I can't say I'm surprised," Kiara said, her voice as placid as still water. "When one's entire world is built upon the status and promises of others, a collapse is inevitable once the foundation is removed."

"But... but she was our friend!" Penelope's tone was full of a naive urgency. She tugged at Kiara's sleeve. "Shouldn't we... go and see if she's alright? She ran out all alone. What if... what if she does something foolish?"

At this, Kiara finally turned her head, fixing Penelope with a look that was almost clinical in its appraisal. "A friend?" she repeated the word, a sarcastic curve to her lips. "Penelope, have you forgotten? Who was it last month who shut herself away in her manor like an oyster, refusing even our visits? Who was it, just a few days ago in the royal gardens, who informed us in that haughty tone that she didn't need our 'pity and compassion'?"

Penelope was left speechless by the questions, stammering, "But... but she was in a bad mood then..."

"When she was in a foul mood, she pushed us away. Now that she needs comforting, are we supposed to run back to her with our tails wagging like loyal pets?" Kiara's voice remained calm, but it was edged with an undeniable sharpness. "With all due respect, Penelope, she closed that door herself. We are under no obligation to knock on it for her again."

Penelope looked into Kiara's rational, almost cold eyes, then at the crowds in the ballroom who were, indeed, resuming their chatter and laughter. The small spark of kindness and hesitation in her heart was finally extinguished by the tide of reality. She let her shoulders slump in defeat and nodded. "You... you're right."

"My word!" exclaimed Maxwell as he fiddled with his camera. "I've organised parties that caused less commotion than what's happening now. I wish I'd gotten a better shot—this is sure to be front-page news in Cordonia's society columns."*

"Max!" Daniel nudged him with his elbow, exasperated. "Can you not be so gleeful? I know that Madeleine woman isn't exactly pleasant, but she looked genuinely miserable."

"Miserable? That's called reaping what you sow," came Drake's voice from the side. He was leaning against a column, arms crossed over his chest, his expression as grim as ever. "She treated marriage like a business deal and Leo like a tool to become queen. The tool is no longer hers, so the business has gone bankrupt. There's nothing to pity."

Their analysis was cool and objective, but Sophie couldn't bring herself to be so detached. She looked at the spot on the floor, now clean but still seeming to hold an invisible stain, and said softly, "But it's just... something wrong. To want a title so badly that you lose yourself completely. To lose all your friends, and yourself..."

Her words cast a brief silence over the group.

It was then that Hana, who had been quiet all this time, suddenly spoke. Her voice was soft, yet startlingly clear.

"I think I'll go find her."

Everyone turned to look at her in surprise.

"What?" Maxwell was the first to react. "Hana, are you kidding? Why would you do that? She's like a grumpy lioness right now; she'll bite the head off anyone who gets close."

"He's right," Drake added with a frown. "This isn't your problem. You don't need to get involved."

But Hana shook her head. Her eyes, which usually held a timid light, were now shining with an unprecedented, determined glow. She turned to Sophie, as if seeking her understanding.

"Sophie," she said softly, "I have to go."

Sophie looked at her, her expression filled with concern. "Why, Hana? She's in a very unstable state of mind. I don't want you to get hurt."

Hana took a deep breath, as if summoning all the courage she possessed. She looked at Sophie, and at the other friends gathered around her, and said, word by word, "Because when she was standing there, shouting... I saw something more than just her."

Her voice trembled slightly but was incredibly sincere.

"I saw myself. A possible version of myself."

"I saw my parents, far away in Shanghai, planning my future like a precise map, telling me I must become part of the court, telling me I must pursue a wealthy man I don't even know. A business transaction. They call it the family's glory, my duty. They never once asked me what I wanted."

"I look at Madeleine, and everything she did—wasn't it also to meet her father's expectations, for the glory of the Amaranth family? She turned herself into a tool, a beautiful, polished tool for acquiring power. And now that the tool has been discarded, she is in so much pain, so desperate."

"I'm afraid," Hana's voice dropped lower, tinged with a real, undisguised vulnerability. "I'm afraid that if I keep obeying, one day, I will become just like her. So," Hana's gaze grew incredibly firm, "I want to go find her. Maybe... maybe she just needs someone to talk to who understands. Not someone who understands her failure as a 'former fiancée,' but someone who understands her pain as a 'daughter,' as a 'tool.'"

After Hana finished speaking, everyone fell silent. For the first time, they saw in this quiet, introverted girl such profound insight and such immense courage.

Sophie was touched; she didnt know Hana's background, but hadn't expected Madeleine's crisis to reflect Hana's own fate. Feeling sympathy for Hana, Sophie was also proud of her courage.

"Alright," Sophie finally said, her voice full of support and trust. "Then you should go. But promise me you'll be careful. If she's still very emotional, or if she makes you feel uncomfortable, you come right back, okay? Call me. I'll come find you immediately."

Hana nodded emphatically, a grateful, relieved smile spreading across her face. "Thank you, Sophie, and everyone. all of you. I will."

She gave her new friends one last look, then gathered her gown, turned, and walked without hesitation toward the golden doors through which Madeleine had vanished. Her figure was small, but her steps were uncommonly firm.

In the ballroom, the soothing music continued to play, and the guests had resumed their elegant chatter, as if the storm had never happened. But Sophie and her friends knew that tonight, something had quietly, irrevocably changed.

Hana slipped a shawl over her shoulders, raised her gown, and slipped out of the ballroom through the ornate doors, choosing the quiet nighttime palace gardens over the lively music and lights indoors.

Silvery moonlight streamed through the windows, casting light across the gallery and onto the gardens outside. Hana hurried past, adrenaline and resolve coursing through her, while the serious expressions of royal portraits watched her every move.

She feared confronting Madeleine, whose pride intimidated her. Yet, staying silent meant remaining trapped by her own timidity. Inspired by Sophie's courage and seeing Madeleine break down, she realised what she could become if she didn't change. This fear finally pushed her to face conflict.

She descended the marble steps. The night air, carrying the damp scent of roses and night-blooming jasmine, brushed against her face, cooling the nervous heat on her skin. The garden was much darker than the ballroom. Massive hedges, trimmed into geometric shapes, cast vast, deep shadows like silent beasts. In the distance, a three-tiered fountain tirelessly tossed jets of water into the air. The droplets shattered into a million glittering diamonds in the moonlight before falling back into the basin with a crisp, monotonous sound, like the echo of weeping.

Hana's gaze searched the winding paths paved with white gravel. Finally, behind the fountain, in the shadows of a row of Grecian statues depicting mythological figures, she found her.

Madeleine was huddled on a cold stone bench. She had kicked off one of her high heels, which lay abandoned at her feet. The magnificent hunter-green velvet gown was now wrinkled and crumpled in her lap, its hem stained with dirt and bits of grass from her desperate flight. She was no longer the lofty Countess, no longer the radiant queen-to-be. At this moment, she was just a helpless woman, abandoned by the world. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, her shoulders shaking violently with silent, suppressed sobs that were somehow more heart-wrenching than any loud wail.

Hana stopped a few paces away. She looked at Madeleine's back, at the spine that was once held so straight but was now bent in sorrow, and a powerful, aching sympathy rose in her heart. She took a deep breath. The cool garden air filled her lungs and solidified her final resolve.

She took a step forward. The gravel crunched under her foot, a sound that was faint, yet startlingly clear in the stillness.

Madeleine’s body went rigid. The sobbing stopped instantly. She was like a startled, wounded animal, whipping her head around.

Her face was pale in the moonlight, her makeup smeared by tears into dark streaks. Her eyes were red and swollen, yet full of stubborn hostility and alertness.

"Who's there?" her voice was hoarse, as if scraped raw by sand.

Hana's heart leaped into her throat. She took a few more steps forward, out of the shadow of the hedge, letting the moonlight illuminate her own face.

"Madeleine... Countess Madeliene?" Hana ventured, her voice lighter, more tremulous than she’d intended.

Madeleine squinted, taking several seconds to focus on the newcomer. A flicker of confusion crossed her features, as she clearly didn't recognize this Asian face, but it was at once replaced by a sharper, more piercing anger of being intruded upon.

"Who are you?" she demanded, as if Hana's very presence was a crime. "No matter who you are, get out!"

"I..." Hana was pricked by the thorns in her tone and instinctively took half a step back, but she didn't leave.

"Didn't you hear me?!" Madeleine's voice rose sharply. She struggled to sit up straight on the bench, trying to reassemble the shattered pieces of her pride. "Were you sent to laugh at me? Was it Sophia Taylor? Or that fool, Penelope? Go back and tell them that even in my ruin, I, Madeleine Amaranth, am not a spectacle for commoners and traitors to pity! Get out!"

The word "commoner" stung Hana for a moment, but strangely, she felt no anger. Because in Madeleine's furious, defensive roar, she heard a desperate whimper.

"My name is Hana Lee," Hana said, not leaving. She simply stood there, her tone so calm it was almost stubborn. "I wasn't sent by anyone. I'm not here to pity you, or to laugh at you."

Madeleine let out a cold, shrill laugh that sounded jarring in the quiet garden. "Oh? Then what are you here for? To admire a discarded antique as it decays in the moonlight?"

"No," Hana shook her head. Her gaze drifted past Madeleine to the fountain, endlessly repeating its cycle of rising and falling. "I'm here because... when you were in the ballroom tonight... doing what you did, I think... I understood how you felt."

"You understood me?" Madeleine sounded as if she had just heard the world's most absurd joke. "You? A girl whose name I don't even know, who appeared from God knows where, you say you understand me? What do you know of five years? Do you know what it's like to be groomed from birth for a single purpose, for your life to be a single path leading to the throne of a queen? Do you know what it feels like when that path suddenly crumbles beneath your feet? You know nothing!"

Her emotions flared again, her voice turning sharp. But Hana didn't argue. She just listened quietly, waiting for her to finish.

Only when Madeleine paused, panting from the outburst, did Hana speak again. Her voice was still soft, but it carried an undeniable force.

"Perhaps I don't know what five years is like, or what it feels like to be a queen in waiting," she said slowly. "But I do know what it feels like when your parents look at you, and see not you, but their own unfulfilled ambitions and the glory of their family name. I know what it feels like to have a price tag put on your life, to be told that your worth is measured only by the benefit you can bring to your family."

Madeleine's ragged breathing stopped abruptly.

Hana did not look at her. Her gaze remained on the distant fountain, as if she were telling someone else's story.

"My parents sent me to Cordonia not because I love its history or its art, but because they felt this was the best market where I could realize my 'value.' They told me to study court etiquette, to befriend the powerful, to… to catch the eye of Prince Liam."

She gave a self-deprecating smile. "They believe that if I could become the king's consort, the Lee family name would shine in Cordonia, even across all of Europe. They planned everything for me, just as your parents planned everything for you. They told me it was my 'opportunity,' my 'destiny.'"

Madeleine was completely silent now. She sat rigidly, the hostility and anger draining from her face, replaced by a deeper, dazed sorrow. She looked at Hana as if into a mirror—a mirror that reflected the most pathetic, unacknowledged truth of her own soul.

"I'm afraid," Hana's voice dropped even lower, filled with a real, raw vulnerability. "I'm afraid that if I fail to meet their expectations, they will be disappointed in me. I'm afraid that if I mess up, I will become worthless. And I'm even more afraid that... even if I succeed, that life is not the one I want at all."

She finally turned her head and looked directly into Madeleine's eyes. Her own dark eyes, usually so timid, were startlingly clear.

"So, when you were standing there tonight," Hana said, enunciating each word, "shouting those things at Prince Leo, what I heard wasn't the anger of a jilted fiancée. I heard the cry of a soul that had been imprisoned for too long, using all its strength to condemn the shackles of 'expectation' and 'glory' that had pushed it into the abyss."

"You weren't grieving a lost love. You were mourning a life that was manipulated, planned, and ultimately, turned to dust."

The garden fell into a long silence once more. Only the sound of the fountain continued its tireless splashing.

Madeleine slowly lowered her head, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders no longer shook violently, but began to tremble with a silent, more hopeless kind of shudder. Hana's words, like a precise scalpel, had cut through the layers of pride and fury she had wrapped around her wound, exposing the deepest, most painful source of her agony.

She had always believed she was unique, that her suffering was singular. That she was a tragic victim chosen by fate. But now, this insignificant commoner girl, whom she had never even deigned to notice, had used the plainest language to voice the most secret, unacknowledged truth of her heart.

It turned out they were the same. Both just pawns on a board, moved by forces beyond their control.

It was unknown how long had passed before Madeleine's sobs gradually subsided. She neither raised her head nor spoke, but just sat there quietly, like a soulless statue, exuding an overwhelming sadness that seemed impossible to dispel.

Hana knew that she had said all she should. Any more words would be superfluous. She made no attempt to comfort her or get closer. She just stood there motionless, quietly watching her.

She knew she had done all she could. At this moment, Madeleine needed not more words but a space where she could face the ruins of her own heart alone. She silently gave her a barely perceptible curtsy, then prepared to turn and leave quietly.

Just then, a night breeze blew through the garden.

The wind was colder than before, carrying the damp chill of the late night, howling from the depths of the garden. It whistled through the hedges, ruffling Hana's gown and sending the mist from the fountain, like a thin, icy veil, lashing against Madeleine's bare shoulders and back.

Her expensive dark green velvet dress, though sumptuous, was not warm. After a long period of sitting still and emotional exhaustion, her body had turned cold. This sudden chill made her shiver involuntarily. She instinctively hugged her arms, trying to draw a little warmth.

And then, a sound so utterly common and undignified, shattered the night's quiet.

"Achoo!"

It was a loud, unguarded, even slightly pathetic sneeze.

Madeleine herself froze. She lifted her head abruptly, her face a mask of astonishment. It was as if the sneeze had come from a stranger inhabiting her body, a stranger who was mortal, vulnerable, and susceptible to the cold. It instantly shattered the last vestiges of her tragic, self-important pose.

Hana, who had been about to leave, stopped. She turned back and saw Madeleine’s face, a mess of tear-streaks, shock, and utter mortification. In that moment, Hana no longer saw the lofty Duke’s daughter, nor the humiliated former fiancée of the Crown Prince. She just saw a miserable lady who had been crying for too long in the cold and was about to fall ill.

Hana said nothing. She simply, silently, slipped the beige shawl from her own shoulders. It was woven from soft wool, a gift from her nanny before she left for Cordonia. It still carried the faint, warm scent of home.

She walked to the bench and gently held out the shawl, its warmth a tangible presence in the cool air.

"Put this on," she said softly, her voice full of an undeniable concern. "It's cold out. You'll get sick."

Her tone was so plain, so matter-of-fact. There was not a trace of pity or charity in it. It was the simple, primal kindness of one person seeing another in need and offering a piece of warmth.

Madeleine's eyes were fixed on the shawl.

Her first instinct was to refuse. To lash out with the sharp, proud cruelty that was her last line of defense.

"I don't need your pity!" — the words were already on the tip of her tongue. Her pride, the fractured, shard-like remnants of her pride, were screaming at her to slap away this common girl's offering. She, Madeleine Amaranth, even at her lowest, did not need charity from a nobody.

But somehow, the words wouldn't come out.

Because another gust of wind blew past, and her body, beyond her control, shivered again. She was truly cold. A cold that seeped into her bones, mixed with sorrow and dampness. It was a truth so real that her pride could no longer deceive her.

She looked at Hana. The girl's eyes were so clean in the moonlight. There was no curiosity in them, no calculation, no sympathy. Only a calm, clear concern.

Madeleine's lips parted, but the scathing refusal she had intended to utter was swallowed back down. Her hand, after a fierce internal battle, finally, slowly, hesitantly, reached out.

Her fingertips touched the shawl. The soft, warm texture was a stark contrast to the cold, smooth silk of her own gown. That warmth felt like a strange magic, traveling up from her fingertips, bit by bit, toward her frozen heart.

She took the shawl, her fingers so stiff they were clumsy.

"...Fine..."

The words were forced from her throat, so quiet they were nearly inaudible, raspy with a reluctance she couldn't hide. But she had said them.

Seeing that she had taken it, Hana lingered no longer. In that brief moment, she had keenly noticed the change in her: a barely perceptible softening at the corners of Madeleine's tightly drawn mouth. She knew that for someone like Madeleine, acceptance was already the most difficult concession. She realized that a tiny crack had appeared in the icy fortress of Madeleine's heart.

"You'd better go back inside and rest soon." She simply gave a small nod and said softly, then, she turned and left. Her light footsteps receded down the gravel path, until they vanished completely into the garden's darkness.

The entire world was silent again, and Madeleine was alone.

She sat on the cold bench, clutching the shawl that still held the warmth of another person's body. The warmth felt so foreign, so... bewildering.

Slowly, she draped the shawl over her own shoulders, which were trembling from the cold and from her weeping.

The moment that simple, rustic warmth enveloped her, Madeleine's tears, without any warning, began to stream down her face once more.

But these tears were completely different from before.

They were not tears of anger, of bitterness, of hatred. They were not tears of self-pity for her lost title or for being abandoned by Leo.

This was a new feeling, something she had never experienced.

It was... a flood of tears born from immense confusion and a faint, flickering warmth.

___________

The fire in the king’s study crackled low, the scent of smoke mingling with the sharp bite of aged scotch. Liam and Leo were each sprawled in the oversized high back chairs like two boys who had raided their father’s liquor cabinet.

Leo tipped the bottle dramatically, filling their glasses to the brim. “To the shiny new king,” he said, raising his glass.

Liam lifted his in reply. “To you, and the fact that someone actually agreed to marry you. Miracles do happen.”

Leo barked out a laugh. “Careful, little brother. I’ve still got years of embarrassing stories I could share at your wedding. Don’t tempt me.”

They drank, and for a while the room was filled only with the clink of crystal and the easy stretch of silence that belonged only to brothers.

“You ever think about how different things could’ve turned out?” Leo asked, swirling his drink lazily.

Liam shot him a dry look. “Different, how? You as king and me burning down the palace by accident?”

“Exactly,” Leo said with mock seriousness. “History’s greatest missed opportunity.”

Liam chuckled, shaking his head. “The world doesn’t run on what-ifs. Only on what comes next.”

Leo leaned back, grinning. “Then promise me one thing—we don’t let the crown turn us into grumpy old men with no sense of humor.”

“Fine,” Liam said, smirking. “As long as you promise not to make my advisors cry at every council session.”

“No guarantees,” Leo shot back, raising his glass again. “Making them cry is half the fun.”

Liam laughed, finishing the last of his scotch before setting the glass aside. He pushed up from his chair, stretching.

“Leaving already?” Leo asked, raising a brow. “The night’s still young.”

Liam’s smile turned sly. “Not for me. Sophie’s waiting.”

Leo groaned, tossing a cushion at him. “Of course she is. Go on then, Your Majesty. Don’t keep the future queen waiting.”

Liam caught the cushion, grinning as he headed for the door. Behind him, Leo’s laughter chased him into the hall, warm and familiar.

The halls of the palace were quiet at this hour, the echoes of laughter and clinking glasses from the evening’s banquet fading into memory. Liam moved with purpose, his steps light despite the weight of the crown.

He paused outside the chamber door, the golden handle warm beneath his palm. For a moment, he let the tension of the day roll off him—the speeches, the endless congratulations, the heavy scotch with Leo. Then he pushed the door open.

Sophie was already there, curled up on the edge of the bed in a silk gown the color of moonlight, her hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. She looked up as he entered, and the tired lines of responsibility melted from his face.

“You’re late,” she teased, though her smile gave her away.

“Leo kept me hostage with scotch,” Liam said with a laugh, closing the door behind him. “You should be grateful I made it out alive.”

Sophie arched a brow. “Hostage, hmm? Judging by your grin, you didn’t fight too hard.”

He crossed the room in a few strides, sinking onto the bed beside her. “Maybe not. But I had a better reason to escape.”

Her smile softened, her hand finding his. “And what reason is that, Your Majesty?”

Liam leaned closer, his forehead brushing hers, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You.”

Meeting her lips, Liam’s kiss deepened, no longer careful but hungry, as though he’d spent the entire night waiting for this one moment. Sophie melted into him, her fingers sliding up into his hair, pulling him closer. The silk of her gown whispered against his skin as he drew her into his arms, holding her as though he’d never let go.

“You don’t know what it does to me,” he murmured against her lips, “coming back from a day like this… and finding you here.”

Sophie smiled breathlessly, her hands smoothing over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “Maybe I do,” she teased softly, before kissing him again—fierce this time, claiming him as much as he claimed her.

The fire cast a warm, flickering glow over the room, but it was nothing compared to the heat rising between them. Liam’s hands traced the curve of Sophie’s waist, pulling her closer, feeling her heart pound against his chest. Every brush of her skin ignited a fire he hadn’t realized had been simmering all day.

“Liam…” Sophie’s breath caught as his lips traveled from hers to her jaw, lingering, teasing, claiming.

He looked at her, his eyes dark with desire and tenderness. “I need you,” he whispered, voice low and raw. “I’ve waited all night for this.”

She smiled, hands tangling in his hair as she pressed her body into his. “Then don’t wait any longer.”

Their lips met again in a kiss that stole their breath, deep and insistent. Liam’s hands roamed over her back and shoulders, pulling her silk gown aside, revealing the warmth of her skin. Sophie’s fingers traced the line of his jaw, down his chest, feeling the strength beneath the kingly exterior, the steady heat that belonged only to her.

Every touch, every whispered word, made the world outside disappear. The crown, the court, the palace—all of it faded until there was nothing but Liam and Sophie, tangled in the sheets, in the firelight, in the sweet, desperate need of each other.

Liam’s lips trailed down her neck, across her collarbone, eliciting gasps and soft moans that made his own pulse race. “You’re everything,” he murmured against her skin. “Everything I’ve ever wanted… everything I’ve ever needed.”

Sophie pulled him back up, pressing herself against him, her mouth claiming his in a kiss that was fierce, tender, and unrelenting all at once. “And you’re mine,” she breathed, “completely.”

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The peaceful interlude was interrupted when footsteps sounded behind her, but she didn’t need to turn. She knew Eli’s stride as well as she knew her own heartbeat. He had yet to say a word when the bushes rustled below, and he moved protectively in front of her. Zoe rolled her eyes. She could take care of herself , and she’d be sure to remind him of that later, but she had to admit, his presence did calm her in ways she could never fully explain.

They surveyed the area closely, confident their culprit was nabbed when a tiny raccoon scurried away. With the ‘threat’ gone, Eli took a step away, but Zoe had other plans. With a sparkle in her eye and an impish grin on her lips, she clutched Eli’s tattered shirt with her fists and pulled him close.  

“What are you...”

The words had barely escaped him when her lips crashed into his – soft, warm, and possessive – they claimed him in a way only she knew how to do. His hand quickly found her waist. Resistance was futile, and the two of them were absorbed by the tender moment. But it didn’t last long. The sound of crunching leaves startled them, and they reached for their bows with practiced ease. But once again, it was a friendly intruder.

“Well, well, well,” Troy drawled, the cocky tone in his voice leaving no question that it was him.

Zoe laughed without letting Eli go. “Hello, Troy.”

Troy leaned against the railing, the moonlight glistening off his signature grin. He eyed them up and down judgmentally before he continued.

“So, what have I stumbled upon? You two - locking lips under the stars like you’re the stars of some cheesy, post-apocalyptic romance, while I stand here – my lips tragically alone. Deserted. Sad. I’m left to wander this zombie-infested wasteland, unloved and unwanted....”  

Eli rolled his eyes as Zoe giggled, “Troy, please. You  know I can’t resist kissing under the stars... and your lips... well, they just weren’t here when they were needed.”  

“Wait a second,” Eli groaned. “Are you saying I was kissed solely out of... convenience?”

“Of course not, sweetheart,” Zoe started, but Troy cut in, clutching his chest dramatically.

“Eli, don’t you dare complain! I should have expected it - people warned me. In every throuple, one poor soul gets left out in the cold, and, apparently, tonight – that’s me. Poor, pathetic me, standing here while the two people who are supposed to love me....”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Eli grabbed the front of Troy’s jacket and yanked him into a fiery kiss – a kiss filled with such passion that Troy’s toes curled, and with it, a miracle occurred – he rendered Troy Hassan speechless.  

When Eli pulled back, Troy blinked in stunned silence.

“Wow!" Zoe exclaimed. “It looks like I’m not the only one who can’t resist kissing under the stars.”

“No,” Eli muttered, fighting the faintest smirk. “I just wanted to shut him up.”

"Well, you did that!" She grinned. "And you've left Troy speechless - that qualifies as a miracle."

Troy finally came to, still dazed but grinning. “Well, congratulations, Eli. You managed the impossible. But for the record,” he looped an arm around each of them and pulled them close, “the best kisses under the stars are when all three of us are involved.”

Zoe laughed softly, leaning in as all their lips found each others. “I have to admit, you're right on that one, Troy."

“Yeah,” Eli chuckled. “I have to agree as well."

“Wow!” Zoe exclaimed, searching the night sky. “Those must be magical stars! Eli left Troy speechless, and the three of us are in agreement! How often does that happen?"

"Pretty much never," Troy concurred. "But - even though we're in agreement - I think the three of us should kiss again - you know, just to prove the theory, once and for all."

"Of course," Zoe cooed. "We wouldn't want to leave anything that important to chance."

Eli rolled his eyes again - even though he was clearly unbothered. "Oh, fine," he scoffed. "But only for research purposes - and if the two of you tell the others I've gone soft - I'll never kiss either of you again."

"As if you could resist," Zoe said, locking lips with Eli once more.

"She's got you there, Sipes," Troy laughed.

Their lips met again, this time slower, more deliberate, as all three found themselves lost in the warmth between them. The deck creaked beneath their weight, and the forest echoed around them.

She lifted her glass, motioning toward Reggie, who strolled over with his usual swagger.

“Another drink, my friend?” He asked with a sympathetic smile. “I feel like I should ask how you’re getting home before I agree to that.”

Kaycee glanced up from under her bangs with an air of indignation that quickly melted to amusement. “Really, this is Boston. It’s not like I'll be driving home,” she scoffed, shooting a pointed look toward Ethan Ramsey, seated directly across the bar. “Besides,” she shrugged, “we can’t all be pompous assholes who own three luxury cars.”

“Ouch,” a smooth voice shot out beside her - his tone dripping with glee.

“Speaking of pompous assholes,” Kaycee sighed.

Tobias Carrick cleared his throat, ignoring her jab. “Get the lady another drink, Reg,” he winked. “I’ll take responsibility for her safety.”

That got Kaycee’s attention. Her head flung back, and her laughter rang out above the din. “You... responsibility... safety?” she stammered. “Please, Reggie. Tell me you're not falling for that.”

Reggie snorted, already reaching for a fresh glass. “Fall for it? Not a chance. But if Dr. Carrick’s volunteering to be your knight in shining armor, I’m making this one a double. You’ll need it.”

With a fresh drink before her, Kaycee settled in. “So, what are you doing here tonight, Carrick?”

“Same thing as you,” he shrugged. “Killing time. Maybe hoping for some decent conversation.”

That's when Kaycee’s eyes, traitorous as ever, drifted across the bar where Ethan stood with that posture she knew all too well: back straight as could be, composed, as if the chaos in the room had no effect on him.

He was listening politely to a woman Kaycee didn’t recognize - she was beautiful with red lips, long, jet-black hair, and a laugh that seemed too animated, given the company she was keeping. Every few seconds, her hand brushed his arm, and while he seemed to be tolerating it more than enjoying it, Kaycee noted he wasn’t exactly walking away, either.

“Kaycee... Kaycee.” Tobias waved a hand in front of her face, then followed her gaze. Understanding flickering in his eyes. “Christ, K,” he muttered. “ Are you still hung up on him?”

Words were unnecessary as her head snapped toward him, eyes narrowed to tiny slits.

“What?” he leaned in, his tone half-amused, half-exasperated. “You can’t keep sulking around like this - especially over Ramsey. Personally, I think the guy’s lost his damn mind letting you go. But you? You’re too young, too beautiful, and too special to keep wallowing like this. Either make your move or move on.”

“Do you think I like this?” She shot back with a small, brittle laugh. “I’ve tried moving on, believe me.”

“Doesn’t look like it from where I'm standing,” Tobias replied, tipping back his glass but never taking his eyes off her. “You’ve been staring at him like a love-sick puppy all night. That’s not what ‘moved on’ looks like, sweetheart. So I say—make a move.”

“Please,” she bristled. “Leave me with some dignity. Ethan’s made it more than clear – he doesn’t want me.”

“Nah,” Tobias scoffed, draping his arm lazily across the back of her stool, the picture of confidence. “He wants you—he’s just a moron.”

“He does not,” she insisted, brusquely knocking Tobias’s arm back to his side.

“Really?” he leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Because he hasn’t managed to keep his eyes off you for the last five minutes.”

“What?” she blinked, heart racing.

“Don’t look now,” he smirked, “but that man’s going to burn a hole right through your skull any second now.”

Kaycee swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “You’re – you’re imagining things.”

“I am not,” he replied, a wicked thought curling into a devious smile. “You want him back? Then play along.”

Before Kaycee could ask what he meant, his hand slid to the back of her neck - steady, warm, unexpectedly gentle - and then his mouth was on hers.

“Mmmh!” she protested, though not as fiercely as either of them would have expected.

The kiss was brazen, bold, nothing like the hesitant but passionate ones she had shared with Ethan so many times before. This was different - Tobias kissed her as though daring her to stop, but she never did. The heat of it left her head spinning, caught between the shock and dangerous thrill of it all.

And then, just as quickly, he pulled away, eyes glistening with mischief. Kaycee’s lips tingled; she could hardly catch her breath. “What... what was that?” She demanded.

Tobias didn’t answer her right away, but his grin sharpened when he found Ethan across the bar - standing stiff as a board, his face flushed, and his jaw locked so tight it was a wonder he didn’t crack a tooth. He made a pitiful attempt at composure, pretending to focus elsewhere before muttering something to the raven-haired woman at his side and slipping away.

A low, satisfied laugh rumbled in Tobias’s chest. He didn’t need years of training to diagnose this scene: Dr. Ramsey was seething, and Tobias was savoring every second.

“That,” Tobias said, downing the rest of his drink in one smooth swallow, “will have Dr. Ramsey pounding on your door before the night’s over.”

He rose from his stool, straightening his jacket with infuriating nonchalance. “And one day - when I’m best man at your wedding?” he added with a wink. “This’ll be my favorite part of the toast. You're welcome.”

With that, Tobias slipped into the crowd, leaving Kaycee breathless in his wake. She reached for her purse, intent on settling her tab and escaping as fast as she could, when her heart lurched.

Because walking toward her – eyes on fire, stride purposeful, and every inch the man she could never quite let go of - was none other than Ethan Ramsey.

And just like that - her night had just begun.

Victoria could see the motorcade from outside of the window in Ethan’s office. They had been there since this morning and it was slowly creeping into late afternoon. Victoria wanted it to all be over so she could go home, put her pyjamas on and forget the whole day ever happened.

There were times where she thought she should show her face to be polite but the thought of it gave her anxiety so she stayed firmly in Ethan’s office.

No one else at Edenbrook was particularly happy about the visit either. The events before was still raw in people’s minds and the last thing people wanted was to entertain another politician. Even though this politician had a better reputation, people still didn’t like the idea given what has happened last time.

Victoria moved away from the window, the sight of the cars making her more annoyed and anxious by the minute. I hope this is all over soon, she thinks.

Everyone had done their best to try and shield her from what had happened but for Ethan, it was becoming increasingly difficult. He wanted to protect Victoria as much as possible but as Chief, he knew he had a role to do. Victoria didn’t begrudge him for this as she knew he was just doing his job and she could tell Ethan would rather be doing anything else. And that was really saying something being Chief of the Hospital.

Victoria looked up from the desk she sat at to see various people walking past. She tried her best not to be nosy as she kept saying she wanted no part of today but there was something that was intriguing her.

The door to the office opened and Ethan strolled in.

“Is it over?” Victoria chuckled.

“I wish. I’ve just come in here whilst he is shown the refreshment facilities.” Ethan said sitting on the sofa.

“What’s he like?”

Ethan looked at her. “Surprisingly nice. There doesn’t seem to be a big ego there. And he seems to be a listener which is rare I think these days.”

“How has everyone else been?” Victoria asked as she came and sat down next to Ethan on the sofa.

“On their best behaviour. Although that’s only because no one wants this visit. I think even the senator picked up on that. He did mention what happened before and said he had nothing but the hospitals best interests at heart. And I believed what he said.” Ethan replied wrapping an arm around Victoria’s shoulders.

“Maybe some people have good intentions after all.”

“Indeed. Everyone was polite though with him which was nice to see. Looks like my teachings have paid off.”

“What’s he like as a person?” Victoria said.

“He seems very understanding. I did my research on him before he arrived and he is just as he is reported to be. He doesn’t seem to have a big ego or self importance which is what I think we need right now.” Ethan said.

“Maybe I should come and meet him.” Victoria said.

“Wait until after lunch if that is what you want to do. I was telling him about the team and he seemed eager to meet you but he understood why you may decide not to.” Ethan smiled.

“I think I got in my own head. I just made assumptions about people when I shouldn’t have. But maybe it will bring some closure so I think I will. Just as long as there are no other patients around.” Victoria chuckled.

“Well that I will definitely make sure of.”

Victoria could feel her heart racing as she awaited the senators appearance. She knew this was the right thing to do but they didn’t make it any less nerve wracking.

She could feel several pairs of eyes burning into her as they stood at the end of the corridor. Everyone must’ve been wondering what she was thinking and Victoria couldn’t blame them.

She could hear the footsteps of the senator and Ethan as they walked down the corridor. She wondered what he might say to her. Victoria hoped he wouldn’t dwell too much on the past. It was the last thing she wanted to talk about.

“This is Victoria Ramsey Senator Marshall, head of our diagnostics team.” Ethan said as he and the Senator approached Victoria.

“It’s nice to meet you Victoria. I’ve heard a lot about you.” The Senator smiled as he held out a hand for Victoria to shake which she reciprocated.

“And you, are you enjoying your time at Edenbrook so far?” Victoria asked as they walked down the corridor.

“I am. This hospital has got some great qualities and it should be proud of that. I can see why this place attracts some of the best talent.” The Senator said.

Victoria showed him the team office and the rooms around the hospital. It felt very natural and like she had done it before, she could still feel pairs of eyes on her and in some cases whispers but she persevered.

Victoria wondered why she was so worried. There was nothing to be worried about. Senator Marshall was as lovely as possible and he understood what the hospital needed and what it excelled in. Unlike others, he clearly had Edenbrook’s best interests at heart.

Soon Victoria was waving the Senator off, the motorcade disappearing into the distance one by one.

“I’m proud of you.” Ethan said as he wrapped an arm around Victoria’s shoulder.

“I got through it. But please can we not have anymore politicians for a long time.”

“Now that I will promise you on.” Ethan laughed as they walked back into the hospital together.

You can bet that everyone including your favourite surgeon was on their best behaviour ☺️

Chapter Summary –

As the coronation evening continues, Hana Lee is introduced to a potential suitor for an arranged marriage. A tense standoff between Sophie and Barthelemy Beaumont has King Liam seeing red. The new relationship between Drake and Riley flourishes as Melanie silently watches. Bertrand has bittersweet memories of his one night stand with Savannah Walker.

Words: 7.2k

A/N1: Bethany Beaumont, Maxwell’s mother, is originally from the U.S. and is Barthelemy Beaumont’s second wife. Annabelle Beaumont (deceased) is Bertrand’s mother.

A/N2: ‘Social Season’ in this AU series refers to a traditional period in the spring/summer for royalty and members of the court to take part in Balls, dinner parties and charity events.

A/N3: Heartfelt thanks to @Selina012 for joining me in writing ideas and with dialogue/content for this chapter and series.

A/N4: Thank you @selina012 for pre-reading

A/N5: My submission for Choices Monthly Challenge – July Challenge 2025|@jerzwriter: Quote Prompt – ‘We met on vacation… I think…’

Cordonian Palace Grand Ballroom

"Announcing Mr. Xinghai Lee and Lady Lorelai Lee, accompanied by Mr. Vince Chen!"

Hana Lee stood at the edge of the dance floor, holding a glass of sparkling water, the tiny beads of condensation on its surface as cold as the sweat beading on her own palms.

She was dressed in a moonlight silver-grey gown. The top-grade silk chiffon was light and flowed with a gentle drape, its classic A-line skirt swaying like liquid moonlight with her slight movement. The silver thread had been used to hand-embroider a pattern of intertwining honeysuckle vines across the gown, which was then adorned with thousands of tiny, almost invisible diamond chips that only refracted a faint yet brilliant sparkle, like stardust, when the light from the chandeliers swept over them. The gown was beautiful, impeccable; it made her look exquisite and fragile, like a porcelain doll meticulously dressed and placed in a display window. Yet, to Hana, it felt like a suit of cold armor, locking the real her, securely inside.

Her friends were her sole support amid the wealth. Sophie looked stunning in her red ballgown, which perfectly suited her. Standing next to King Liam, she was no less magnificent than any princess of noble blood. Maxwell and Daniel were huddled together, whispering and laughing, the easy and intimate chemistry between them filling Hana with a sincere sense of envy and warmth.

"Opportunity."

"Responsibility."

"Disappointment."

These words were the tightening circlet of her upbringing. Hana unconsciously tightened her grip on the glass, her knuckles turning white.

They were here.

Hana's breath caught in her throat. She felt the blood rush to her head, a dull roar filling her ears. She instinctively straightened her back, like a startled fawn instantly on high alert. Sophie at once sensed her friend's rigidity and, following her gaze, saw the trio. She understood at once the true weight of that letter. She subtly moved half a step closer to Hana, her arm brushing against Hana's in a silent show of support.

"Hana," her mother, Lorelai, spoke first. Her voice was level yet carried an undeniable tone of command.

"Stand straight. Your posture."

Hana felt her body move as if pulled by marionette strings, her posture becoming even more rigid.

Her father, Xinghai Lee, was introducing ‘his exhibit’. "Vince, this is my daughter, Lady Hana."

Before Hana could react, Vince Chen had already stepped forward, closing the distance between them. A heavy scent of cologne and hair gel assaulted her senses, making her stomach churn.

"Lady Hana, a pleasure to finally meet you." His voice was a deliberately low, magnetic tone that he clearly thought was charming. "You are even more beautiful than in your photographs."

As he spoke, he reached out his hand, not for a polite handshake, but with an uninvited familiarity, intending to take hers.

This time, Hana did not retreat. Years of repression and the silent support of her new friends at her back catalyzed a rebellion she didn't even know she possessed. The moment Vince Chen's overly manicured hand was about to touch hers, she swiftly raised her own—

💥Smack!

A crisp, unhesitating sound.

She had slapped his hand away with the back of her own. The sound was not loud, but in their immediate circle, it was deafening.

Vince Chen's hand was left hanging awkwardly in mid-air. The slick smile on his face froze for a fraction of a second, a flicker of shock in his eyes.

“A little self-respect, Mr. Chen... Please."

Hana's voice was quiet, still laced with an uncontrollable tremor, but every word was cold and clear. She lifted her head, and for the first time, she did not look away, meeting Vince Chen's gaze directly.

This sudden act of defiance plunged the atmosphere into an icy stasis.

Hana's parents’ expressions changed instantly, their displeasure palpable.  Her mother's haughty smile vanished completely. She stepped forward, and grabbed Hana's arm, her nails digging into her flesh. "Hana!" she hissed, squeezing the words from between her teeth. "Are you mad?! Apologize to Mr. Chen at once!"

Her father's reaction was even colder. The shrewd businessman in his eyes was now replaced by pure fury and menace. He smiled an apologetic smile at Vince, then leaned in and spoke to Hana in a tone laced with warning, for her ears only. "It seems you need to be re-educated on your duties when we return home."

Yet, to everyone's surprise, after the initial shock, Vince Chen's expression transformed not into anger, but into one of heightened interest. He slowly retracted his suspended hand, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he looked Hana up and down, as if seeing her for the first time.

"Interesting," he murmured, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "I do love a rose with thorns. It makes the prize all the more satisfying to claim."

His words twisted her rejection into a coquettish game, and the condescending, proprietary tone was more humiliating to Hana than any outright anger.

Just as the suffocating tension was about to break, a crisp and elegant voice cut through the air like a sword.

"Greetings, Mr. Lee, Lady Lorelai."

Sophie stepped forward with a smile, naturally positioning herself beside Hana, subtly using her own body to create a barrier between Vince and her friend. As the fiancée of King Liam and the Duchess of Valtoria, her status and presence were enough to make Xinghai and Lorelai Lee take notice.

"Why, if it isn't the Duchess of Valtoria," Lorelai's expression at once shifted to one of even greater enthusiasm. "What a pleasure to see you here."

Vince's gaze fell upon Sophie, a flash of appreciation in his eyes, but it quickly returned to Hana, his possessive desire undiminished. He smiled at Sophie and said, "Nothing serious, Duchess Sophia. Hana and I were just getting acquainted. In fact, I was about to ask her for a drink, if she would grace me with her company?"

He tried to issue his invitation again.

This time, before Hana could refuse, Maxwell squeezed through with two brightly colored cocktails in his hands.

"Oh! Mr. Lee and Lady Lorelai! Aren't you Hana's parents? I've heard a lot about you!" he greeted them with his characteristic, over-the-top enthusiasm, and then, ‘accidentally’, spilled the better part of one drink all over Vince Chen's expensive trousers.

"Oh, my heavens!" Maxwell exclaimed, feigning utter shock and dismay. "I am so terribly sorry, Mr. Chen! It's so crowded in here! Your trousers... I'll get an attendant to help you at once!"

"You—" Vince's face darkened as he looked down at the sticky, multicolored liquid soaking his pants, his expression a mask of disgust.

Taking advantage of the small chaos, Sophie whispered to Hana, "His Majesty mentioned earlier that he wished to speak with you about the university fund. We should go now, let's not keep the king waiting."

It was an undeniable excuse. Hana shot a grateful look at Sophie and Maxwell, a wave of warmth flooding her heart.

"Father, Mother," she said, mustering her courage, "His Majesty has summoned me. Excuse me, but I must be leaving now."

As ugly as their expressions were, Xinghai Lee and Lorelai could say nothing against a royal summons. Her father could only grit out, "...Be quick about it."

Sophie gave them a polite nod and then, taking Hana's hand, led her firmly through the crowd and toward Liam, leaving the three of them behind with their varied expressions of fury and frustration.

The moment she turned away, Hana felt as if she had won a small but significant battle. Though this was only a temporary escape though, she knew her parents and Vince Chen would not give up. The support of her friends made her feel, for the first time, that she was not fighting alone.

She glanced at Sophie's serene and confident profile, at the fiery red gown, and a tiny seed of courage quietly took root in her heart. She knew she couldn't hide behind her friends forever. Someday, she would have to learn to be like Sophie, to stand up and say "no" for the sake of her own life.

... later in the evening

In a recess off the side of the grand ballroom, the clamor was muted, mostly absorbed by the heavy Persian rugs and velvet curtains. A few older nobles conversed in hushed tones, while Barthelemy Beaumont, the Duke of Ramsford, had just concluded his "lecture" to his niece, Sophia.

Sophie stood alone before a massive floor-to-ceiling window, the golden liquid in her champagne flute trembling slightly in her hand. She didn't drink, merely stared out at the royal gardens, illuminated by countless festive lights, trying to calm the turmoil inside her. Barthelemy's words, like invisible needles, had pricked at the confidence she had so carefully built.

"...As the future Queen, every word and every action reflects upon the Crown. Your origin is an indisputable fact, Sophia. You must work a hundred times harder to make up for this innate deficiency. House Beaumont gave you a ticket into this world, but how far you go depends on whether you understand the true rules of Cordonia..."

The words echoed in her mind. It wasn't concern; it was a condescending judgment.

"Sophie?"

A deep, baretone voice, laced with worry, sounded behind her. Liam had appeared at some point, noticing that Sophie had left the ballroom. Seeing her pursed lips and pale complexion, he immediately understood. His gaze flickered past her shoulder to where Barthelemy was now chatting amiably with another old duke, and Liam's sky-blue eyes instantly grew cold.

"What did he say to you?" Liam’s voice was quiet, but it simmered with suppressed rage.

Sophie turned, forcing a smile. "Nothing, Liam. Uncle was just... showing his concern. Reminding me of some points of court etiquette." She didn't want to add to his burdens on his important night.

Liam said nothing. He simply reached out, his thumb gently smoothing the worry lines from her brow. Then, he took her cold hand and, with the undeniable calm of a king, led her directly towards Barthelemy.

Sensing their approach, Barthelemy broke off his conversation and turned, his face a perfect mask of the seasoned aristocrat's easy grace and duplicity.

"Your Majesty," he said with a slight bow, his eyes, however, held a hint of an elder appraising a junior. "I was just about to offer my congratulations. The celebration tonight is unparalleled."

"Thank you for your praise, Duke Beaumont." Liam's voice was placid, devoid of any emotion, though his grip on Sophie’s hand tightened. "I saw that you were speaking with my fiancée, the Duchess of Valtoria. I trust your conversation was a pleasant one."

He deliberately emphasized Sophie’s title. It was a reminder, and a boundary.

Barthelemy’s smile didn't waver. He turned to Sophie with a look of feigned affection. "Of course. Your Majesty worries too much. Sophia is my niece, after all. As her elder, seeing her about to take on such immense responsibility, I couldn't help but share some experience, to help her better adapt to her future role. It was entirely out of familial concern."

He skillfully framed his actions as an "internal family matter," attempting to exclude Liam, the "King," from the conversation.

However, before Liam could respond, Sophie herself took a small step forward. She gently slipped her hand from Liam’s and stood independently before Barthelemy; her face composed with the impeccable grace of a future queen.

"Thank you very much for your concern, Uncle Barthelemy." Her voice was soft yet carried an unyielding firmness. "You are right, the role of Queen is indeed a heavy one, and I have much to learn. However, I believe His Majesty the King and Her Majesty the Queen Mother will be my best, and indeed, my only tutors."

The statement, like a dagger wrapped in velvet, was precise and elegant. It acknowledged her "need to learn" while explicitly rejecting Barthelemy’s intrusive "guidance," firmly aligning herself with the highest echelon of royal authority—Liam and Regina.

Barthelemy’s pupils contracted almost imperceptibly. For the first time, he realized that this ‘lucky American girl’, whom he had consistently underestimated, now possessed a formidable strength of her own.

A silent, tense standoff filled the air.

It was Liam who finally broke the silence. He took Sophie’s hand again, a proud yet distant smile on his face.

"Well said, my Duchess," he first praised Sophie, then turned his gaze to Barthelemy, his expression having returned to the calm dignity of a king. "In that case, Duke Beaumont, I also hope you will focus your valuable energy more on the affairs of the Duchy of Ramsford."

His voice remained steady, but each word landed with weight.

"Our kingdom has faced much turmoil recently, and the threat of the 'Children of the Earth' has not been fully eradicated. I need senior, loyal nobles such as yourself to lead by example in your own lands, to be the staunchest shield for the Crown, and not... overly concern yourself with the affairs of my house."

‘The affairs of my house’ -- those words were spoken lightly yet carried immense gravity. They were like an invisible wall, politely but unequivocally shutting out Barthelemy’s so-called ‘elder status’ and ‘familial concern’.

Barthelemy's face finally stiffened. He knew he had lost. In this smokeless battle, the young new king had used the most restrained language to display the most absolute authority.

"...Yes, Your Majesty." After a long moment, he managed to force the words from his throat, then executed a bow that was more standard, and more rigid, than any before. "I shall heed your counsel."

With that, he said no more, walking backwards, then turned and melted back into a nearby group of nobles, his retreat carrying a hint of haste.

Liam watched his back disappear before he finally let out the breath he was holding. He looked down at Sophie, his eyes filled with a mixture of heartache and pride.

"I'm sorry you had to endure that."

Sophie shook her head. Tears appeared.

Liam placed his hand on her lower back and steered her into a vacant chamber down the hall.

For a long moment, silence hung between them. Sophie pressed trembling fingers to her lips, struggling to contain the swell of emotion. The faint strains of music drifting into the room served as a bittersweet reminder that the world outside, indifferent to her pain, carried on.

Tears shimmered in Sophie’s eyes, heavy but unfallen. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

Despite all attempts to regain her composure, Sophie’s shoulders continued to shake with sorrow.

 “Sophie, my love …", Liam gently wrapped her in his arms. “Hey, hey there ... You need to calm down.”

His voice was soothing, but her tears now flowed unbidden, each one a testament to the anguish in her heart. Liam held her tighter, his own sorrow mirrored in his eyes as he struggled to find the right words to say. “We’ll get through this together, I promise,” he whispered, knowing that the promise of togetherness was the only solace he could offer at that moment.

“Please, please … tell me … Is it true?" Sophie’s words came out with gasps of air. "... his illness ..."

Liam knew all too well that the truth about Barthelemy ‘s ‘illness’ would be revealed eventually.  There was no illness. Only a well-orchestrated deception. His duplicity towards his wife and sons was despicable. 

He drew a deep breath, feeling the weight of the impending confession bear down on him. "Yes, Sophie, it is true," he finally admitted, the words bitter on his tongue. "Barthelemy has been deceiving us all, and there is no illness." The revelation hung heavily in the air, mingled with the palpable grief between them. Sophie’s sobs grew quieter; a mix of despair and disbelief settled in as she processed the betrayal. Liam’s heart ached watching her world unravel, knowing that the truth, though brutal, was a necessary step toward healing. His heart broke on how Sophie had found out.

As Sophie’s breathing became more regular, the tremors in her body revealed the depth of her turmoil. "How could he do this to us?" she murmured, her voice laced with the bitterness of betrayal. Liam’s hold tightened protectively around her, his mind racing to find words of comfort. “Sometimes, people’s actions are driven by motives we can’t comprehend,” he said softly, trying to soothe her shattered trust. “But we must find strength within ourselves to move forward and rebuild what was broken.” He wiped away a stray tear from her cheek, the gentle touch a silent assurance of his unwavering support and love.

...standing on the ballroom terrace...

Drake Walker’s gaze swept across the ballroom. Liam and Sophie were at the center of a swarm of aristocrats, the natural focus of attention, gracefully handling every toast and greeting. Maxwell was flitting through the crowd with his precious camera like a happy butterfly, capturing every 'splendid moment'. Even Bertrand, the ever-serious older brother, had a faint smile on his face as he chatted with his sister—Savannah, whose eyes, shining as brightly as the stars, made no secret of her adoration for him.

Everyone was happy. Except for him.

Drake raised his glass and drained the golden liquid in one gulp. The sting of the alcohol sliding down his throat temporarily numbed his irritation.

A crisp, familiar voice, tinged with mockery, sounded beside his ear.

“Well, well, well….so this is where you have been hiding.”

Drake relaxed almost instantly. He didn't even need to turn around to know who it was. In this palace filled with false pleasantries and tedious rituals, only this voice could so accurately pinpoint his thoughts without causing offense.

He turned and, sure enough, saw Riley. She was dressed in a sleek, dark green gown that complimented her olive skin and sharp, green eyes. She held a glass of apple martini, and looked him over with amusement, the charming smile on her lips seeming to say, "I knew I'd find you here."

"I'm inspecting the structural integrity of this pillar," Drake replied, his face a blank mask, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather. "Making sure it won't suddenly collapse under the weight of certain nobles' overly 'enthusiastic' congratulations. It's a very important security task."

Riley giggled at his deadpan humor, her clear laughter a pleasant note against the elegant music. "Oh, is that so? And what are your findings, our great protector? Is it, like you, seemingly indestructible on the surface but actually just wants to hide in a corner?"

"At least it doesn't talk," Drake retorted, but the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. Talking to her was so much easier than dealing with Melanie.

"I saw Countess Emilia talking to you earlier," Riley said, taking a sip of her drink, her eyes scanning him. "She looked like she was about to marry her daughter off to you on the spot. You're the most eligible bachelor in Cordonia now, you know. 'Sir Drake Walker, the king’s loyal advisor.'"

Drake let out a derisive snort. "She just wanted me to teach her muscle-headed son how to play polo for free. I bet he can't even tell which end of a horse is the front."

"You're always so cynical," Riley said, shaking her head, though her eyes danced with amusement. "But seriously, how does it feel? Going from the prince's friend to the King’s inner circle tonight." Though her tone was still playful, her sharp, green eyes watched him closely, as if trying to see past his defenses.

Drake hesitated, searching Riley’s face for any trace of mockery, but finding only genuine curiosity. He could feel the weight of the room pressing in, the gilded laughter and swirling silks of the court blurring at the edges, leaving just this small cocoon of honesty between them.

He considered dodging her question, as he had so many others tonight, but something about the way Riley lingered—her posture relaxed, her gaze steady—made it impossible. He exhaled, a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Riley’s eyes softened, the teasing note in her smile fading to something more tender. She didn’t interrupt or offer hollow reassurances. Instead, she leaned in, lowering her voice. “You know, you don’t have to be anyone but yourself with me,” she said. “Let them play their games. We can take a break from all the masks, at least for tonight.”

For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. The music, the clinking of glasses, even the burn of the whiskey felt distant—muted compared to the quiet understanding between them.

He looked at her, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “You do know how to talk me off a ledge.”

Riley tilted her head, green eyes glinting. “That’s because I know where you hide your ledges.”

A hush settled around them as the last echo of their laughter faded. Drake’s gaze lingered on Riley, searching, as if weighing an unspoken question. With the ghost of a smile, he tipped his head toward a quieter corridor branching off from the terrace. “You know,” he said, voice low so only she could hear, “there’s a bottle of decent whiskey in my chambers that’s been waiting patiently for a night like this. Care to join me? We could use a little escape from all this... royal theater.”

Riley’s eyebrow arched in playful challenge, but the warmth in her eyes softened her reply. “Is that your legendary hospitality, Walker, or are you just desperate for someone to appreciate your taste in overpriced liquor?”

He grinned, the tension draining from his posture as he dared offer a hand. “Maybe a bit of both. What do you say?”

She slid her hand into his, her laughter quiet and genuine. “Lead the way, Sir Drake. I could use a break from all the opulence.”

Just as they started to leave the terrace, a figure in the corner of Drake's eye caught his attention.

Melanie Smithson held a nearly untouched glass of champagne, a flawless social smile fixed on her face. She had just concluded a conversation with some viscountess, a conversation so dull it made her want to strangle herself with the delicate lace trim of her own gown. She needed a moment to breathe, someone she could actually talk to. In the Cordonian court, she felt the only person who could truly be called a friend was Riley.

They had been best friends, the staunchest of allies in the infinitely possible and brutally competitive city of New York. They had shared dreams and mocked the men and women who tried to claw their way into high society. Melanie had always believed their friendship was built on a shared, clear-eyed understanding: they both wanted a better life, but their methods were smarter, more elegant.

Her eyes scanned the glamorous terrace, and soon, she spotted Riley's signature dark green silhouette. A flicker of joy went through Melanie; she had finally found a harbor where she could temporarily lower her mask. She smoothed her dress, gracefully sidestepped a flirting young couple, and made her way toward Riley.

But as she drew closer, the smile on her face slowly froze.

Riley was there, yes, but she wasn't alone. Leaning against a marble pillar, laughing and talking with her, was none other than Drake Walker.

Melanie instinctively stopped in the shadow of a large potted plant, where the dimmer light was enough to keep her unnoticed. She watched them, a sense of absurd disbelief flooding her. Drake, the commoner stablehand she had "disposed of" not long ago, was now standing with her best friend. And they looked... far too comfortable.

She could see the familiar, sharp wit shining in Riley’s eyes—the same look she got on the streets of New York when dealing with the most difficult clients or the most arrogant men. And she could see Drake, the man who in her memory was always a bit stiff and clueless, now completely at ease. He was leaning against the pillar, a relaxed, genuine smile on his face that Melanie herself had rarely seen.

They stood close, but not improperly so. Yet, the atmosphere between them, that chemistry that can only exist between two people on the exact same frequency, was like an invisible barrier, shutting everyone else out. Melanie couldn't hear what they were saying, but she saw Riley laugh so hard at something Drake said that she threw her head back. She even gave his arm a playful slap, and Drake just shook his head, a look of pure indulgence in his eyes.

A searing wave of humiliation washed over Melanie’s mind. This isn't jealousy, she told herself. She had never loved Drake, had never even truly liked him. He was just a pawn for her to get close to Prince Liam and the Royal circle… a useful but disposable tool. She had felt nothing when she cast him aside.

What was this?

What did this make her look like? A fool with no judgment, who mistook a diamond for a stone? A failure who couldn't even control her own best friend?

She remembered complaining to Riley about Drake's "rudeness" and "lack of sophistication." And now, Riley was clearly charmed by him. This was tantamount to a public declaration that the problem had been with her, Melanie; that she was the one incapable of appreciating Drake's "qualities."

What was even more unbearable was the loss of face in front of Riley. Riley, her confidante from New York, with whom she had scorned those who schemed for personal gain. Yet she herself had become exactly that person—she had used Drake and then abandoned him when he "lost his value." She had never told Riley the whole truth. And now, Drake and Riley's closeness was like a mirror, reflecting her own ugly, utilitarian side back at her.

No, she couldn't let that happen. She couldn't let Riley—or the entire Cordonian court—laugh at her.

Melanie took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. Her fingers tightened around the cool stem of her champagne flute, her knuckles turning white. Anger and humiliation churned within her, finally settling into a cold, calculating resolve. She needed to regain control of the narrative. She needed to make Riley understand that Drake Walker was absolutely the wrong choice. She needed to protect her own judgment, to protect her "face."

She watched Drake and Riley laugh together again, and the sight was so jarring it almost made her want to shatter the glass in her hand. A direct confrontation would be foolish, she knew. She needed to play a role, the one she was best at: the concerned best friend, full of goodwill and worry.

She composed herself, wiping all traces of darkness from her expression. When she looked up again, her face wore a perfect, measured look of concern. She saw Riley heading towards the bar for a new drink, while Drake was momentarily occupied by another well-wisher.

The opportunity had arrived.

Melanie took a step forward, gliding gracefully toward Riley. Her movements were elegant and unhurried, as if she were merely about to engage in the most ordinary of sisterly chats.

"Riley," she called softly from behind, her voice filled with just the right amount of surprise and warmth. "I've been looking all over for you. I didn't expect to find you here."

The smile on her face was so sincere, the "concern" in her eyes so intense, that no one could have guessed that beneath the perfect mask, a war for vanity and face had quietly begun.

Holding her empty apple martini glass, Riley elegantly turned, ready to head to the bar. Behind her, Drake's figure was obscured by a few nobles who had come to congratulate him; she could hear him handling them with a tone that was impatient yet forced to be polite. A faint smile touched Riley's lips. This man was certainly interesting.

"Riley," a soft, familiar voice called out to her. "I've been looking all over for you. I didn't expect to find you here."

Riley turned to see Melanie approaching. Her "best friend" was wearing a pale lilac off-the-shoulder gown tonight, its skirt dotted with fine diamonds that sparkled under the lights, making her look noble and elegant. Her face wore a perfect, measured smile, her eyes full of warmth and enthusiasm.

"Melanie," Riley replied with a smile, clinking her empty glass against Melanie's full one. "I thought you'd be busy discussing Cordonia's economic prospects with the future Chancellor of the Exchequer. What brings you over to a commoner like me?" This was their old inside joke from their New York days, an unspoken understanding.

"Don't be silly," Melanie said softly. She naturally took Riley's arm and led her to a quieter corner of the terrace, away from the noise of the crowd. They leaned against the balustrade as the evening breeze drifted by, carrying the scent of roses from the garden below. "I saw you talking with Drake just now."

Melanie's opening was casual, like sharing a harmless piece of gossip. But Riley's intuition told her the words that followed were the main event.

"Yes, he's a decent conversationalist," Riley answered noncommittally. "At least more interesting than listening to Count Boskovich brag about his new pony."

"That's not what I meant," Melanie's brow furrowed slightly, her face adopting a look of mixed concern and difficulty, an act worthy of applause in any court drama. "Riley, you've just arrived in Cordonia. There are some things you might not understand. As your friend, I feel... I have to give you a little reminder."

"Oh?" Riley raised an eyebrow, rattling the ice in her glass. "Remind me of what? Not to drink too much free liquor, or not to get too close to the hero of the hour?"

As if she hadn't caught the sarcasm, Melanie sighed, her gaze turning wistful as she looked into the distance. "Drake... he's changed a lot lately."

The statement was masterfully vague, designed to pique curiosity.

She paused, gauging Riley's reaction, then added in almost a whisper, "He wasn't like this before. You know, he was simple, even a bit... crude. But now, he's starting to enjoy this feeling of being sought after. I'm afraid he's becoming... ambitious."

Riley almost laughed out loud. Ambitious? Drake? The man who looked like he'd been sentenced to life imprisonment just by wearing a suit? The man who would rather spend time with horses than speak a single word to a noble? It was the most ridiculous joke she had ever heard. But she didn't let it show, merely nodding thoughtfully.

"Riley, you're so smart and so charming," Melanie said, taking her hand with an earnest grip. "I don't want you to get caught up in the complexities of the court. Drake is the King's friend now, his status has changed, and the people who approach him no longer have simple motives. I just don't want to see you... get used by him, like..."

She stopped there, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air, ripe with possibilities. The sadness and grievance in her eyes seemed to silently declare that she herself was the one who had been "used," the victim abandoned after Drake had "risen to power."

The performance was perfect. Had it been someone as naive as Penelope, she would have already been filled with righteous indignation, utterly detesting Drake.

But this was Riley.

And she knew Melanie too well. Melanie's every glance, every gesture, every seemingly casual pause was a calculated move. She never did anything that didn't benefit her. Her so-called "worry" was more like a carefully packaged warning or declaration.

Riley subtly pulled her hand back, raised her glass, and said playfully, "Relax, Melanie. I'm just looking for someone to drink and chat with, not elope with him. I'll keep my eyes open."

She paused, her tone shifting as her gaze drifted back towards Drake, who was clumsily trying to escape a long-winded duke. "Besides, an 'ambitious' commoner hero sounds even more exciting, doesn't it? The story could practically write itself."

Melanie hadn't expected this reaction. She was taken aback for a second before her "concerned" expression returned. She patted Riley's shoulder gently. "It's good that you can think that way. Anyway, you know I'm always on your side."

"Of course I know," Riley replied with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

After a few more pleasantries, Melanie excused herself, claiming she needed to greet another lady, and gracefully departed. Her posture was still noble, as if her 'friendly' reminder had been nothing more than her duty as a best friend.

Riley stood alone by the railing, finishing the last of the cold liquid in her glass. She watched Melanie's figure disappear into the crowd, the smile slowly fading from her own face, replaced by a sharp, thoughtful expression.

Of course, she didn't believe Drake was the ambitious hypocrite Melanie had described. She was more inclined to believe that Melanie had said those things for reasons she refused to admit—like her own ridiculous vanity and pride.

And yet, the seed of doubt had been planted.

Not doubt about Drake's character, but doubt about what had really happened between him and Melanie. Melanie's words were mostly an act, but what was the small, carefully hidden kernel of truth within the performance?

"Interesting," Riley murmured to herself, placing her empty glass on a passing waiter's tray.

She decided then and there. She would find out for herself just how many secrets this man, Drake Walker, was hiding. And that process, she suspected, would be far more interesting than the ball itself.

House Beaumont, Ramsford

Bertrand Beaumont stared into his crystal tumbler, the amber liquid within barely rippling despite the tight grip of his gloved hand. The flickering firelight of the Beaumont Estate’s drawing room danced across the polished wood floors, but his thoughts were far from the present.

Savannah Walker.

'We met on vacation ... I think ...'

He had tried to forget her. Cordonia’s etiquette, his noble obligations, the long-standing feud with Drake—all had demanded he erase that night from his memory. But memory, he had learned, was stubborn.

It had been a moment of weakness. A stolen night wrapped in shadows and silk, her laughter ringing in his ears like a song he had no right to know. She had looked at him not as a Duke, not as a man with a legacy to uphold, but simply… as a man. And in that moment, Bertrand had let his mask slip.

He remembered the scent of her skin, the way her fingers had tangled in his collar, how her breath had hitched when he whispered her name in the dark. He had never meant for it to happen. But God help him, he’d never stopped thinking about it since.

A knock echoed sharply against the drawing room door. Bertrand stiffened, eyes narrowing.

"Enter," he said, his voice cold, composed.

The butler stepped in, clearing his throat. “A letter arrived for you, Your Grace. It was delivered by hand. No return address.”

Bertrand took the envelope, the weight of it unnatural, foreboding. He broke the seal. The paper inside was smooth, the handwriting unfamiliar.

One line.

“You may want to sit down, Your Grace. You’re a father.”

His breath caught.

The fire crackled behind him.

And the glass slipped from his hand.

[To be continued…]

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Most nights, she stumbled home after a brutal shift and collapsed onto her bed, hair a mess, with barely enough energy to brush her teeth and change into the tank top and shorts that doubled as PJs.

Cassie assured herself that once she adjusted to the pace of residency, life would return to normal. She’d have time for the occasional blowout or mani-pedi; maybe even a bit of retail therapy, once she made a dent in her medical school debt.

But as she stared at her somewhat haggard reflection in the locker room mirror, she wasn’t sure she had the patience to wait that long. Something had to be done, and soon.

“Stopped admiring yourself, Valentine,” her roommate and fellow resident Jackie Varma drawled, slamming the locker door shut. “We’re on in five.”

“I need a manicure,” Cassie said wistfully. “And I’d kill for a massage.” She rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the kinks that had settled in after multiple six-day shifts.

“Sure, because residents have so much free time,” Jackie said, rolling her eyes.

“Well, I’m going to make the time!” Cassie said, lifting her chin. “I hate looking like something the cat dragged in.”

“You’re looking a bit ragged, Cassie, but I wouldn’t go that far,” said Bryce Lahela—her friend, fellow intern and surgical heartthrob—as he flipped his hair back with practiced ease.

His abs glistened with sweat, and a basketball was tucked under one arm.

“Gee, thanks. Just what a girl needs to hear,” Cassie muttered, annoyed at how Bryce could look good even after a workout.

Life was just not fair to women.

“Ignore the meathead,” Jackie said, already walking. “Come on, we can’t be late for morning rounds. I wonder which attending we’ll get today.”

As Cassie followed, she cast one last glance at the mirror.

First day off, I’m definitely booking a spa day.

Her resolve only strengthened when she spotted Ethan Ramsey waiting near the nurses’ station.

Having a crush on her attending was so high school. But there was no denying the man made hearts swoon with that killer jawline and those laser-blue eyes.

Her fingers itched to run through his tousled dark brown hair. She wondered if it was as soft as it looked.

Of course, the fact that he always looked so put-together only made Cassie feel even more like a slob today.

And just how muscled was his chest beneath that button-down shirt and white coat? She already knew he looked just as good walking away as he did walking toward her.

Cassie surreptitiously lifted her arm and sniffed, letting out a quiet breath of relief when she got the all clear.

She loved how tall he was; it made looking up at him feel all the more romantic. Like she was Odette, reuniting with Siegfried after the swan maidens’ waltz, expressing their tragic love in an adagio pas de deux.

Of course, she didn’t love his height quite as much when he was looking down his nose at her—the way he did whenever she messed up—lips curled, ready to deliver one of those cutting remarks that reminded her she had so much to learn, whereas he was the exalted Dr. Ramsey.

The not-so-gentle nudge had her glance to the side, where Elijah—her roommate and fellow resident—was grinning in amusement. He rolled his eyes and nodded toward the front of the group.

Heart sinking, Cassie looked up to find Dr. Ramsey staring at her, arms crossed and brows furrowed in exasperation.

Abashed at being caught by her secret crush—and under the watchful eyes of interns who wore expressions ranging from pity to amusement—she groaned inwardly.

“If you’re done daydreaming, Valentine, can we begin rounds?” he asked, one brow arched.

“Yes, Dr. Ramsey. Sorry, Dr. Ramsey,” she stammered, wishing the earth would open up and swallow her whole.

Cassie fell back as everyone moved on to the first patient, all the better to put some distance between herself and the source of her humiliation.

“Your face is so red,” Jackie teased, keeping her voice low. It was rumored Dr. Ramsey had bat-like hearing. “Just how X-rated were those fantasies, Valentine?”

“Don’t tease her, Jackie,” Sienna whispered. “She’s lucky Dr. Ramsey was distracted himself, or it could’ve been much worse.”

Cassie was grateful for her bestie’s intervention, and for the sympathetic look that accompanied it. Sienna gave her hand a quick, reassuring squeeze before stepping forward to present her patient.

Now that she thought about it, Cassie realized he hadn’t reacted the way he normally did when an intern failed to meet his exacting standards. In fact, he’d been acting distracted—furtive, even—for days now.

And was that stubble? Overgrown, like he hadn’t had time to shave?

What—or who—was keeping Dr. Ramsey up at night? A woman… or the mysterious Patient X?

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Cassie had been a witness to his complicated relationship with Louise—her sudden return after twenty-five years of absence, the years shadowed by addiction; his seething anger at being abandoned as a child, his resolve to be a better man despite everything.

Ethan had tried to help her, staying through multiple stints in rehab, until he had to step back for his own sanity. By the time Louise died of liver failure, he hadn’t spoken to her in years. He hadn’t even known how sick she was.

After the funeral, he withdrew, shutting Cassie out whenever she reached for him. And she had let him.

The twins—now nearly three—were a handful, and between them, her career and the endless social obligations, she didn’t have much left to give.

Not the way she once had.

The fact was, they had drifted away from each other, so gradually that she couldn’t pinpoint the inflection point.

Is this how a relationship ends, she wondered. Not in some dramatic rupture, but in the silence of words left unsaid.

The sound of Ethan’s boots on the hardwood shook Cassie out of her reverie. She looked up as he came into view, one hand adjusting the collar of his raincoat, an overnight bag in the other.

“The girls are still asleep,” he said, setting the bag down before crossing to the espresso machine.

“I’ll check in on them shortly. Mrs. C had an early appointment but should be here before I need to leave,” Cassie said, referring to their nanny.

She watched him make his coffee with practiced ease, her gaze catching on the long, elegant lines of his fingers, the flash of platinum on his left hand.

She remembered sliding that band onto his finger on a warm July afternoon in the gardens of her family’s estate, waves breaking against the rocks beyond, family and friends gathered close.

The rings represented promises they’d made to each other.

“I promise to support and encourage you, embrace the unexpected with you, and always work on being the best version of myself for you.”

“I promise to stand by your side, to love you fiercely—even when you’re driving me a little crazy—and to choose you every day, no matter what.”

Lightning split the sky, flooding the room with neon silver, and snapping her back to the present.

“Do you need to go to Providence today?” she asked, glancing toward the windows where the storm pressed harder against the glass. “It’s really coming down.”

“My dad’s expecting me,” he said, tossing back his espresso in one quick swallow.

Cassie’s brows pulled together. “I’m sure he doesn’t expect you in the middle of a nor’easter.”

“I’ve put it off long enough.” He shrugged, rinsing the cup before setting it in the dishwasher.

Unable to stand it any longer, Cassie stepped into his path as he turned to go.

“We need to talk.”

He stopped. One brow lifted. “About?”

“This. Us.” She gestured between them, her hands indicating the distance—physical and mental—that had grown there.

“I know you blame yourself for not doing enough for Louise,” Cassie said, forcing the words out before he could sidestep her again. “But it’s not your fault, Ethan. Her body gave out after years of abuse.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice flared, and he brushed past her. “And I don’t have the time or the interest in rehashing this.”

Unwilling to let it go, Cassie followed.

“Your mother is gone, Ethan. You have to stop punishing yourself for her choices,” she said, her voice low but urgent.

She reached for his hand; the sting of his rejection hit harder than a slap when he pulled away.

Back when he was still fighting his feelings for her, it was always his touch—the way he’d intertwine their fingers, his thumb stroking the back of her hand—that betrayed him.

“Enough!” he snapped. “I’ve told you—repeatedly—that I don’t want to talk about this. Why can’t you respect that?”

The words she meant to say withered on her tongue. Anger radiated off him, and she’d only seen it this raw once before—when she’d sent Louise photos of the girls without asking him first. That had been the only time he’d unleashed his full ire on her.

The incident had scared them both, a stark reminder of how fragile love could be. Afterwards, they’d vowed to always be truthful with each other.

Ethan prided himself on control. At work, Dr. Ramsey could, and did, cut down anyone who failed his exacting standards for being a good doctor and putting patients first. He could be impatient in social settings, diplomacy never his strength, and he certainly didn’t suffer fools gladly.

But with Cassie, he had been different. More open. More forgiving. More willing to compromise. More everything he wasn’t with anyone else.

Now they stood across the hall from each other, and he looked at her as if she were a stranger. Something inside her died.

Before she could fully register it, he turned and walked out; the slam of the door louder than the thunder outside.

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