Charlotte had never seen such lights in her life. Fairwell Manor had chandeliers, yes, but nothing like the towering crystal storms that hung from the palace ceiling, glowing like captured constellations. Music swelled through the hall—violins, flutes, and distant drums weaving a rhythm that made the marble floors tremble delicately beneath her slippers.
She stepped into the ballroom with her heart hammering against her ribs.
Lady Agnes's emerald gown fit her well—too well, in fact. It hugged her waist like the dress had been waiting its whole life for a younger body. Her mask sat carefully on her face, white and feathered, hiding every trace of a servant girl who had no business standing beneath a royal ceiling.
Walk slowly, Charlotte. Not like you're sneaking past Lady Agnes's bedroom.
Her thoughts were a mess of nerves and humor.
A servant passed with a tray of wine-filled crystal glasses, and Charlotte—determined to look like the noblewoman she pretended to be—extended her hand gracefully. Or at least, she meant to.
Her fingers trembled and the tray shifted.
And the entire row of wine glasses tumbled like a line of crimson dominoes.
A sharp crash rang across the marble.
Red wine splashed in a vivid arc across the polished floor, pooling like a wounded stain beneath the light. The music halted on a trembling note. Conversations stopped. A hundred masked faces turned toward her in synchronized horror. Charlotte froze.
Her mind screamed, "Oh wonderful. First minute in the palace and I've baptized the floor.
She attempted a curtsey—perhaps the worst choice she had ever made. Her balance faltered, her left foot slid a little, and she nearly toppled forward. Gasps fluttered across the room like startled birds.
A masked noblewoman whispered loudly, "How clumsy. She must have new money."
Another snorted. "Or no money at all."
Heat crawled up Charlotte's neck. She wanted the marble to open and swallow her.
Then a shadow moved through the crowd—smooth, steady, unhurried. A tall figure approached, dressed in a deep midnight-blue coat and wearing a sharp, silver-lined mask that covered half his face. He walked with the confidence of someone who owned the floor he walked on. The Crown Prince.
Charlotte recognized him instantly, even behind the mask. Everyone did. His presence carried a quiet gravity—elegant, controlled, and intimidating.
He stopped before her. For a moment, neither spoke. The room held its breath around them.
Then his lips curved into the smallest, most dangerous smile she had ever seen.
"Tell me," he said softly, "do all ladies from your household announce themselves with wine?"
His tone wasn't cruel. It was playful—teasing, almost warm. Charlotte swallowed hard. "Only on special occasions… Your Highness."
He raised a brow. "Ah. Then tonight must be very special indeed."
A ripple of laughter moved through the hall—not mocking this time, but amused. The Prince bent slightly, offering his hand. Charlotte hesitated, then placed hers on his, praying her palm wasn't sweating like a frightened horse.
He steadied her gently. "Do not worry. The floor has survived worse attacks."
She didn't trust herself to joke back, so she nodded, trying to appear composed. As the servants rushed to clean the spill, the music resumed cautiously, like a startled creature crawling out of hiding. But attention remained on them—on the mysterious lady who had made the royal floor bleed wine, and on the prince who had chosen to help her rather than humiliate her.
"May I know your name?" he asked.
Panic pinched her chest. She couldn't say Charlotte. She couldn't.
"Lady… Lila," she said, naming the first thing that came to mind—a childhood doll.
"Lady Lila," he repeated, watching her carefully, as though tasting the truth behind the lie. "I see."
Before she could convince herself he believed her, a shadow drifted across her peripheral vision. A hooded figure lingered near the Queen's guards, pretending to observe the decor. But Charlotte felt his gaze—sharp, too sharp—cutting toward her.
Why watch me? A servant girl pretending to be a lady should be invisible.
The Prince followed her gaze and noticed the figure too. His posture shifted subtly—not tense, but alert.
"Is something the matter?" he asked.
She shook her head too quickly. "Nothing at all, Your Highness." If he doubted her, he said nothing.
The orchestra began a new song—slow, elegant, a waltz designed to draw pairs into the heart of the ballroom. Nobles stepped forward, claiming partners. Silks swirled. Jewels glittered. The Prince extended his hand again.
"Would you grant me this dance?"
Charlotte's heart tripped over itself. She shouldn't. She absolutely shouldn't. Dancing would draw more eyes. More risk. More chances to slip up. And yet…
"No lady should begin her evening with humiliation," he added quietly. "Allow me to replace it with something better."
Her breath caught. She nodded. He guided her to the center of the floor. The dance began with a subtle sway. Charlotte followed his lead, surprised by how effortlessly he moved. His hand at her back was warm, steady, anchoring her in this surreal moment.
"You dance well," he said.
"I am… trying not to step on your feet," she whispered.
A soft laugh escaped him. "If you do, I shall pretend it was intentional."
Her face heated. "Please don't. I'm already notorious for attacking floors."
"True," he said. "Fearsome reputation."
Their steps aligned. The music lifted around them like a soft tide. For the first time that night, Charlotte felt weightless—seen, yes, but not in the suffocating way she feared. Seen in a way that made her feel like she wasn't merely a servant girl wearing borrowed silk.
"Lady Lila," the Prince murmured, "tell me truthfully… have we met before?"
Her breath faltered. "No. Never."
Another lie. A flimsy one.
He studied her face—her voice, her trembling fingers, the nervous quiver in her laugh.
"Perhaps," he said quietly, "I simply feel as though I've known you longer."
Before she could respond, the hooded figure reappeared at the edge of the crowd—closer now. Watching her with unmistakable intent.
The Prince's hand tightened slightly on hers.
"Stay close," he murmured. "Something is amiss tonight."
Charlotte swallowed her fear as they continued to dance—her heart torn between two dangers: The danger of being discovered…
And the far darker danger lurking behind the Queen's throne.