The hand of the Crown Prince was cold, a clammy weight on Marissa's knuckles. The request to dance was not an invitation; it was a command, wrapped in velvet and steel.
Marissa knew it. Jane knew it. And Derek, watching from across the room, his fists clenched, knew it.
Marissa's mind raced. If she danced with him, she was entering the lion's den. If she refused, she was insulting the future King. But there was a third path—the path of the weak, the path of the "fragile" woman Jane had accused her of being.
She slowly, deliberately, pulled her hand back from Liam's grasp. She did not snatch it. She withdrew it as if her strength had failed her. She raised her other hand to her temple, pressing her fingers against her skin as if fighting a sudden headache.
