Her pulse was a gallop. Her cheeks were warm. The last notes faded, and she felt the world settling back into place. The eyes. The whispers. She eased back, removing her hand from his chest. He didn’t stop her. He let her go with a reluctance that told her he didn’t want to.
And gods help her, neither did she, not truly.
That, more than anything, terrified her. Because this closeness, this ease . . . it was how it should’ve been. But it came after the pain. After the letter. After a lifetime of believing she was a burden, only to learn her own blood had moved a kingdom to set her free.
The two truths warred inside her, dizzying and irreconcilable. The visceral memory of Alexander’s rejectionagainst the warmth of his hand on her back. The cold finality of the annulment request against her brother’s secret bargain. And beneath it all, the plot that had weaponized both.
How could she stand in the ruins of one story, feeling the fragile first bricks of another being laid, and know which one to trust?
Still, her heart tilted toward him like a seedling toward sunlight, aching for his warmth even when it burned. But she could no longer tell where that warmth ended and the manipulation began.
“I should go find Reiyana,” she said. “She might need me.”
She needed this excuse, this deliberate retreat to the only ground that felt solid. Beside the Aethonian princess, her role was clear: She was the healer. There were no shadows to interpret, no wounded heart to lick. No terrifying, half-formed bond tugging at her heartstrings. There was only need for care, and her proven ability to meet it. That was a duty she understood, a script she could follow.
She felt Alexander’s gaze even when she was staring at the floor.
“JingYi—”
She didn’t let him finish. “Thank you. For this.”
She turned before her resolve could crack and walked away, her right leg feeling stiff after the surprising elegance of the dance. She found Reiyana on a velvet settee near the terrace doors, flanked by her husbands. The moment Reiyana spotted JingYi, she touched both princes’ wrists.
They rose, pressed their lips to her knuckles, and melted into the crowd without protest. Reiyana’s smile, tired and genuine, welcomed JingYi to the empty cushion beside her.
“You’re not dancing,” JingYi observed, settling down. It was a healer’s assessment as much as a friend’s.
Reiyana gave an easy one-shouldered shrug. “The little one has decided my ribs make an excellent harp. Every glide feels like a tantrum.”
JingYi’s focus remained on Reiyana’s pale complexion, the shadows around her eyes. “You’re fatigued. The crowd, the noise . . . it’s draining. Would you like to return to your room? I could brew some tea to help you sleep.”
Reiyana’s smile deepened. “You see too much. But yes, the thought of my bed is more appealing than any lord’s flattery right now.”
Her gaze drifted toward the bustling floor. “But, perhaps in a moment. I do like watching all the beautiful gowns swirling about. And,” she gave JingYi a friendly nudge and a conspiratorial wink, “I loved seeing you out there. Your dance with Lord Wulfbane was beautiful.”
JingYi looked down at her lap, cheeks burning. “You’re only teasing.”
Reiyana reached over and squeezed her hand. “Not at all. If only you could see whatIsaw.”
They sat in companionable silence for a heartbeat, admiring the couples twirling on the dance floor.
The shift in the air came gradually. The music didn’t falter, not at first, but the chatter did. Stillness passed through the guests closest to the entrance, then rippled outwards. Heads turned. Fans halted. JingYi felt it before she heard it—that subtle tightening in the atmosphere, like the hush before a storm broke.
The herald’s voice rang out above the dying notes, “Lady Isabel Vaelmont—the Duchess of Caerelle, and Lord Ambrose Vaelmont.”
JingYi turned toward the doors and knew, without seeing, that nothing about this night would go as planned.
Reiyana stiffened as the two figures strolled into the ballroom. “They’re here,” she muttered. As though by wordless agreement, her husbands appeared beside her.
The crowd parted to reveal a woman draped in black from head to toe. A gossamer veil obscured her face, but the lines of mourning were visible even through the fine mesh. Beside her stood a man—tall, lean in a way that spoke of discipline. A military bearing, though he carried no Alpha posturing. The firelight caught on the ends of his brown hair, revealing a sheen of dark bronze, though that surprise softened none of his austerity.
They went first to the king and queen, bowing low before the raised dais. JingYi sat just close enough to see the tremor in the Duchess’s gloved hands, the way her bow lasted a beat longer than her son.
King Eiric remained seated on his throne, expression still as carved stone, but the muscle in his jaw ticked. “Duchess. Lord Ambrose. Welcome.”
“Your Majesties. It has been too long.” JingYi couldn’t see the woman’s face beneath the black veil, but her voice carried—low and hoarse, as if her grief had manifested into a lump in her throat. “Thank you for allowing us to stand here tonight in your hall. My husband, the duke, sends his regrets. He hasn’t been feeling well. Not since . . .”
She faltered, pressing a black handkerchief to her mouth.
