In that moment—when the King took my hand, when we twirled beneath the chandeliers to the last bittersweet note of the waltz—I knew I had changed the game.
I didn't ask to be chosen.
I made him step down from the throne.
Letting him accept my invitation wasn't mere theatrics. It sent a message rippling through the ballroom like a dropped goblet—shocking, unignorable. I didn't rise by bowing deeper. I rose by making the highest man in the land follow my lead.
When the final spin ended, we paused—his hand still holding mine. The room burst into polite applause, but the true audience was watching us in silence, their eyes sharp.
The King leaned close.
His voice was low, just above a whisper, tinged with amusement. "That was a bold move."
I smiled, meeting his gaze with practiced grace. "So was accepting it, Your Majesty."
He laughed—quiet, short, but sincere. "I like a woman who can turn a performance into a negotiation."
Then, just loud enough for a few of the front-row nobles to overhear, he added, "Join me for supper tonight. I think you've earned more than just applause."
My heart skipped, not because of the invitation, but because of the eyes. They were all watching—waiting to see how I'd react.
I didn't respond immediately.
Instead, I gently pulled my hand away and offered a curtsy so slow it could be mistaken for hesitation. I tilted my head, the faintest smile on my lips, and looked up at him with deliberately unreadable eyes.
"I appreciate the offer," I said, voice calm, almost delicate. "But I've already made arrangements for tonight. Perhaps… another time."
I could feel the ripple of shock behind me. Declining the King—even politely—was unheard of. But I kept my poise, as if unaware of the silent gasp I'd caused.
His brows lifted, but he was amused, not offended. "You're not afraid to make me wait?"
"I've learned," I said with a slight tilt of my head, "that anticipation makes the meal taste better."
He chuckled again, nodding slowly. "Very well. Another time, then."
I bowed one last time, turned, and walked away—not too fast, not too slow. Just enough to leave the scent of mystery in my wake. Behind me, the nobles whispered, puzzled and intrigued.
I had danced with the King.
I had refused the King.
And now... he would have to come to me.
Yes, I had changed the game.
And it had only just begun.
After our performance, the ballroom remained tense with expectation. The next group of ladies took their place for the Flower Dance Festival, and although they moved with grace, something was missing. A stumble here, a poorly timed twirl there—their formations failed to bloom into the vision they had rehearsed. Compared to the seamless elegance of our presentation, theirs seemed fragmented, almost dull.
Rebecca stood beside me near the velvet-lined corridor, arms folded, lips twisted into a condescending smirk. Her eyes, sharp as thorns, trailed each misstep with obvious disdain.
"Look at that," she muttered loud enough for others nearby to hear. "Like watching petals fall from a dying branch. No unity, no rhythm—barely any raw talent."
I said nothing at first, simply watching. The murmurs from the audience echoed Rebecca's thoughts. Harsh, impatient. Some of the nobles were already shaking their heads. Others barely clapped.
Rebecca leaned closer to me, lowering her voice. "You see now, don't you? You only stood out because you had the best teacher."
I glanced at her, raising a brow.
"Modest today, aren't we?"
She shrugged with a smug smile. "I'm not modest. I'm honest. You wouldn't have made it past the first round if I hadn't trained you to move like a true noblewoman. Admit it."
I gave a faint smirk. "Then I suppose I'll thank you—if I win the whole thing. But until then, maybe hold off on writing your memoir."
Rebecca laughed dryly. "Oh, I plan to. Right after I finish helping you crush the competition."
She turned her gaze back to the center of the ballroom, where another candidate was struggling to keep pace with her group.
"And that," she added with a snap of her fingers, "is why eliminations exist."
I straightened slightly, curious. "Speaking of... how exactly does the elimination work?"
Rebecca didn't look at me, but her voice lowered as if letting me in on a secret.
"Each performance is ranked by the Royal Board—Lady Ilena, Duke Ramiel, and of course, the King himself. They don't just judge based on skill, though. They look for poise, creativity, how well you adapt under pressure, and whether you make the nobles talk after the curtain falls. It's not just a dance. It's a statement."
"And how many are cut?" I asked.
"It varies," she replied. "But after tonight's disaster, I wouldn't be surprised if they send half of them packing. The palace only wants stars on that stage—not wilted roses."
I nodded slowly, heart steady. So that was it.
The real performance hadn't ended with the dance. It was still happening—behind curtains, inside whispers, and in every glance exchanged across the ballroom. The stage had just expanded.
When we returned to the chamber, a neatly sealed envelope was already waiting on the ornate silver tray by the door. My fingers hesitated before picking it up. The palace didn't make announcements in person—too many tears, too much noise. Instead, they delivered results like delicate death sentences—elegant, discreet, and cold.
I tore open the envelope.
Four names. Four hopefuls eliminated.
They were the ones who had stumbled. The girls who had forgotten their steps or danced out of sync with their group. Just like that, they were gone—erased from the competition as though they had never set foot in the ballroom.
I sank into the velvet armchair, the letter still trembling in my hand.
"This is awful," I muttered under my breath. "They're so... perfectionist. I wonder if I'll last long in a place like this."
Fiora stepped forward, placing a delicate plate on the table before me. "You don't have to worry about that tonight, Miss," she said cheerfully, though her eyes remained cautious. "Congratulations. You've advanced to the next round. So... I made you something special—almond tart, just the way you like it."
I blinked at her. "You remembered?"
She gave me a small smile. "Of course. I remember everything about you. Even before all... this."
I looked at the golden tart, the scent warm and sweet in the air. For a moment, I let myself feel proud—grateful even.
"Thank you, Fiora," I said softly, before taking a small bite.
But my mind hadn't fully settled. There was still a name I needed to ask about.
"By the way," I began, swallowing. "How's Evan? Did he come back to the palace?"
Fiora straightened and nodded. "Yes, my miss. He returned this morning."
My brows furrowed. "Then who's watching over Xyrone? Did someone replace him?"
"Oh—Miss Rebecca took care of it." Fiora's voice dropped to a slightly more respectful tone at the mention of her. "She personally assigned a palace guard to your two-storey house and even hired a caretaker to stay there full-time. They said their purpose is to protect your friend... and keep the place secure."
I sat back slowly, letting that sink in. Rebecca? Organizing protection for someone close to me? That wasn't just generous—it was strategic.
"That's... great," I said at last, though a part of me couldn't help wondering what Rebecca was really planning.
Fiora continued tidying up, humming a lullaby under her breath as though the world beyond these chamber doors wasn't slowly sharpening its claws.
And I just kept thinking:
I survived today.
But what about tomorrow?