The second waltz ended in a sweep of strings and curtseys, and the crowd slowly shifted.
But then—movement on the dais.
Lucien stood.
And the ballroom fell silent again.
His presence was effortless. Regal. Icy.
Eyes turned. Feet stilled. Even the orchestra paused.
"I believe," he said, his voice echoing through the great chamber, "this gathering lacks one essential thing."
Murmurs sparked instantly.
What was he doing?
He stepped down from the throne's platform with measured grace, each step deliberate—controlled.
And then—
He walked straight toward Aveline.
Nobles parted like the sea, unsure whether to gasp or kneel.
He stopped only a few paces away from her. Silence thundered between them.
Lucien extended a gloved hand.
"Aveline d'Arceneaux," he said, "would you honor the court with this dance?"
The silence shattered.
Shock. Outrage. Fascination.
He was making a statement. One that couldn't be ignored.
And everyone knew it.
All eyes turned to her now.
Not as a fallen noble.
Not as an outcast.
But as the woman the Crown Prince just chose—again.
Aveline didn't reach for his hand immediately.
No—she let the moment stretch.
Let them all feel it.
Lucien's outstretched hand remained steady, his face unreadable. But his eyes—those cold, fire-glinted eyes—searched hers like he was waiting for a sign.
Was it strategy? Guilt? Regret?
She didn't flinch.
With the faintest smile, Aveline placed her gloved hand in his.
The orchestra stumbled, then found its rhythm again—swelling into something haunting and slow as the two stepped onto the marble dance floor.
The crowd rippled with disbelief.
"She accepted?"
"She dared?"
"Is he mad?"
But no one dared stop them.
They moved together like shadows locked in orbit. Perfect. Calculated. Electric.
Lucien leaned closer as they turned, his voice so low only she could hear it.
"You always did know how to make an entrance."
Aveline met his gaze without blinking. "And you always did enjoy starting fires."
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile. "Perhaps. But tell me, Aveline… are you here to put them out?"
She turned, her gown sweeping behind her like the tail of a comet.
"No," she said softly. "I'm here to watch them burn."
The prince's steps didn't falter, but something shifted in his expression—something unreadable.
They danced beneath a thousand candles, surrounded by silence sharper than any blade.
And the court, for the first time in years, did not know which one of them to fear more.
"You've changed," Lucien murmured as they turned again, his hand steady at her waist. "The old Aveline would have looked at the floor, afraid of every whisper."
Aveline's smile was all frost.
"No. The old Aveline trusted the court to defend her. That was my mistake."
Lucien exhaled through his nose. "And now?"
She met his eyes without hesitation. "Now I listen to the whispers. Then I decide who gets to keep their tongue."
He gave a soft, almost amused sound—half admiration, half warning.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Aveline."
She leaned in, just enough for her breath to ghost across his cheek.
"You taught me how."
The dance drew them into one last elegant turn, and the orchestra let the final note ring like a knife hitting crystal.
They separated—graceful, distant, untouchable.
But the ballroom had shifted.
Aveline could feel it. Eyes weren't just watching now. They were calculating.
Some in awe.
Some in fear.
Some—like Lady Calista—in rage.
Across the room, Calista's grip on her jeweled fan tightened until the bone snapped.
"She has the prince's ear," someone whispered near her.
"She has the court's attention," said another.
Calista didn't answer.
She was too busy watching Aveline's face.
Because the girl they had cast out had returned with silk on her shoulders and fire in her spine—and the moment Lucien touched her hand, everything had changed.
But Calista hadn't spent years securing her place just to lose it to a ghost.
No.
This time, if Aveline d'Arceneaux wanted to dance—
She would burn with her.