Their dance moved like liquid shadow and light, graceful, controlled—yet under the precision was something older, something pulsing beneath the elegance.
Princess Ranya leaned in slightly as Aldrin spun her into a slow turn, her voice low enough to drown under the strings.
"I'm told you're a man of discretion," she said, gaze flicking to his jaw rather than his eyes. "But even shadows have limits. Don't they?"
Aldrin's expression didn't shift, but his grip adjusted ever so slightly. "If you're asking if I speak more than I need to—no. I don't."
She smirked, lips barely moving. "Good. Then I won't waste your time either."
They rotated again, sliding past a gilded mirror, their reflections a study in contrast—Aldrin, in his black suit sharp as judgment; Ranya, in a navy gown that clung like the hush before war.
"I didn't come for the gala," she continued. "Or the art. Or the people." Her fingers traced lightly against his gloved hand. "I came for you."
He raised a brow at that—not in surprise, but as if to say you're not the first.
"I'm flattered," he said, cool and clear.
"But not moved?"
The question hung there—half a tease, half a challenge.
"I don't move easily," he replied.
Ranya smiled, something knowing behind her eyes. "So I've heard. But even stone can be carved with the right pressure… or the right promise."
Another turn, closer now.
"I'm offering more than admiration," she said. "My family controls several trade corridors in the East. Land, shipping, air rights, high-level clearances across borders your name alone won't breach." She let the next part slip out like perfume: "You'd have access to everything your competitors beg for in backroom deals."
Aldrin said nothing at first. The music swelled, and his body moved in sync with hers as if this were just a dance. But his voice, when it came, was low and even.
"You're offering me a kingdom."
Ranya tilted her head, lips close to his ear. "No. I'm offering you the crown."
The violins reached their gentle crescendo, the tempo softening for a close.
"I know what you're building," she continued. "And I know the woman watching us right now thinks she knows you. But I wonder…"
Another slow turn. Aldrin's eyes flicked to Iris—standing still, watching. But now her arms were crossed, her stance guarded, and her face unreadable.
"I wonder," Ranya said again, "if she knows what you're willing to become."
Aldrin turned back to the princess, hand still placed properly at her back.
"Do you?"
Her gaze narrowed, equal parts curiosity and desire.
"I know what I could shape with you," she whispered. "Not a fairytale. An empire."
The final notes of the waltz began to fall like soft rain—drawn-out, elegant, meant for endings.
Aldrin dipped her slightly, eyes still locked to hers.
"You presume," he said, voice velvet-dark, "that I need help carving kingdoms."
Their feet slowed, the floor beginning to fill again with dancers pairing up.
"Then show me I'm wrong," she challenged.
The moment paused—on a beat, on a look, on the breath between ambition and sentiment.
Aldrin gently released her hand and straightened, offering a bow out of respect… not intimacy.
Ranya's smile didn't fade. In fact, it deepened. She hadn't won him—but she'd intrigued him. And in courts like these, that was how the first war was won.
As she walked away, her hips swayed like she owned the room. And every gaze that followed her confirmed it.
But Aldrin didn't follow her with his eyes.
No.
He was already looking elsewhere.
Back to the emerald in the corner who stood still, trying not to be seen yet unable to disappear.
The dance was over.
But the game?
Only just beginning.
Aldrin returned to the alcove, the world just behind him still reeling from the weight of his dance with royalty.
Marek spotted him first, leaning against the archway with a glass of something expensive and intentionally forgotten. His grin was already waiting. "Well, look who's survived diplomatic seduction."
Ainsworth didn't bother with the smile. His brows raised with that familiar air of mockery. "Did the princess offer you her hand or her empire?"
Aldrin exhaled slowly, undoing the top button of his shirt as he took the glass waiting for him. "Both."
There was a brief silence.
Marek coughed. "Wait, seriously?"
"She offered me territorial access, ports, backdoor routes through European customs, a personal envoy in the UN, and conditional immunity in three trade zones."
"That's not a proposal," Ainsworth muttered. "That's a bribe disguised in navy silk."
"She's efficient," Aldrin replied.
"Tempted?" Marek tilted his head, the mischief now curiously toned down.
"She's offering me a throne." Aldrin sipped. "But one that comes with golden cuffs."
"You've built an empire without kneeling once," Ainsworth said, voice quieter now. "Why start now?"
Aldrin didn't respond.
Not with words.
Instead, his gaze flicked past them, as if something in the air had shifted—a change in pressure, a change in rhythm.
And there she was.
Iris.
Bathed in low golden light, wrapped in deep emerald like nature's own defiance against steel and shadow. The dress sculpted her without apology—snug around her chest, a gentle plunge at the back, and a slit that hinted at her leg with every step. No jewels. No crown. Just her—raw, radiant, and entirely unaware of how many hearts she held hostage.
Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes carried the weight of a dozen unsaid things. She was whispering to Isabella, her hand resting on the edge of the orchestra's modest platform. Something electric passed between her and the conductor. A nod. A pause. A breath caught in the air.
And then—
The strings began.
A lone cello, low and rich, curling through the gala like smoke.
The violins followed—slow at first, almost shy. Then came the build, like breath quickening between two lovers who hadn't yet touched.
Aldrin's heart picked up with the tempo.
"What's she doing?" Marek asked, tone more reverent than mocking now.
"She's changing the night," Ainsworth murmured.
The music wasn't fast for the sake of thrill—it was fast the way a heartbeat gets when your skin brushes someone else's for the first time. Intimate. Urgent. Poised. The kind of melody that pulled at your spine and whispered things to your soul.
And Iris stepped forward.
Into the center of the dance floor.
Alone.
She didn't speak. She didn't wave or beckon. She simply existed there—strong and soft, back straight, shoulders back, chin tilted just enough to be proud but not arrogant.
Like poetry with teeth.
The crowd began to shift, eyes narrowing, some confused, others enchanted. A few looked toward the orchestra in awe. The rest stared at her like she'd become the music itself.
Her emerald gown caught the light like ivy woven in stardust. Every step echoed confidence. But the kind born from battle, not vanity. Not a display of beauty—a declaration.
Isabella stood back, arms folded, watching with a smirk. The knowing kind.
And then—
Her eyes met his.
Not a challenge. Not an invitation.
Just a question.
You see me?
And then another:
Are you coming, or are you going to let me dance alone?
Aldrin's body had already shifted, instinct ahead of intention. One hand brushing down his jacket. The other still holding his untouched drink.
"You're going, aren't you?" Marek asked.
"Was there ever a question?" Ainsworth replied for him.
Aldrin didn't answer.
But the silence he left behind said everything.