The morning after the charity ball found Dorian exactly where most of the kingdom would not imagine him—lounging in his private study, the light of a late dawn falling across dark wood and velvet, his phone glowing pale in his hand. He had not yet dressed for the day; his shirt hung loose, only half-buttoned to bare a stretch of chest, cuffs undone, the picture of careless morning ease.
The world, however, was already wide awake.
His feed bloomed with the aftermath of last night, headline after headline stacked in dizzy succession. The Baker Who Stole the Spotlight. He let the phrase roll across his mind, amused by the melodrama. His thumb slid over the glass, flicking the screen downward. Each article bled with photographs: Isla caught in Cael's ivory gown, silk spilling like liquid cream down her frame, the kind of fabric cameras worshipped.
Another swipe—Isla on the dance floor, his hand at her back, her face tilted toward him in the press of motion. The shot was tight enough to look private, as though the room had emptied around them. One frame froze her mid-surprise, lips parted, eyes wide, as though he'd whispered something worth stopping the world for. Dorian lingered there, tracing the lines of her astonishment. The camera had been merciless, but also... honest.
He laughed once, soft and low, when the next photo surfaced. Tyler, the forgotten man of the evening, kissing Isla outside the ballroom's glow. The caption did not call him by name; it didn't have to. Everyone could read the implication: the baker's mysterious escort, swept in at the end like punctuation no one asked for.
The kingdom devoured such images. Dorian, on the other hand, found them... entertaining.
The night replayed itself in his mind without effort. Isla had walked into the ball trying to disappear, shoulders tucked, presence dimmed, the way prey moves through a predator's field. She had every intention of surviving unnoticed.
It might have worked—if not for him.
He had seen Tyler first. That small stiffness in the man's jaw, the possessive tilt of his shoulders whenever Isla strayed too far. It had been obvious. Dorian had grown up surrounded by courtiers who played at loyalty, who flattered and cajoled only to reveal fangs later. He'd spent a lifetime sifting through gestures, postures, the smallest tells that exposed what a person feared, what they wanted. Reading Tyler was child's play.
Not ambition. Not greed. Insecurity. A raw, grasping need that clung to Isla like a shadow.
And Isla—bright, sharp, unwilling to flatter him even when he wore a crown—had folded herself smaller for that man. She'd bitten her tongue, lowered her gaze, softened her laugh. All for the comfort of someone who could not hold his own ground.
Dorian had hated it.
So he had bought the necklace. Not out of gallantry, but because he wanted to see the fire break through her restraint. He had pulled her into the dance, not for spectacle, but to remind her—remind everyone—that she did not belong in corners. She belonged at the center.
Kindness? Hardly. Cruelty? No. It was simply intolerable to watch her hide when he knew she could burn brighter than the rest of them.
His thumb stilled on the screen.
He imagined her now, perhaps in her bakery, scrolling as he scrolled, her own face multiplied across every screen. He pictured her bristling, muttering at the dramatics, cheeks hot as if customers were whispering and staring. Maybe she wasn't there at all. It didn't matter. The image amused him.
Would she deflect? Pretend it meant nothing? Or would she finally confront Tyler, who had been caught like an afterthought in the closing shots?
The thought pulled a smile to his mouth, slow and sharp. No one in the court, no noble, no carefully trained beauty, had ever managed to amuse him the way she did. Isla Reed, baker of bread and reluctant scandal, entertained him without even trying.
And he was not finished being entertained.
A knock stirred the quiet. Light, hesitant.
Dorian didn't look up immediately. He set his phone aside, leaned back in his chair, and called, "Enter."
The door edged open, and a maid slipped in, her hands folded against her apron, eyes downcast. She bobbed a quick curtsey.
"Your Highness," she said softly, "your presence is requested... in the courtroom."
The courtroom. A word that carried weight in the palace, though it needn't be explained.
Dorian let out a low breath, a sound more amused than troubled. Of course. His name, tangled with hers, had already appeared too many times for the Court to overlook.
He flicked his fingers in dismissal. The maid bowed and retreated, closing the door behind her.
Silence reclaimed the study.
Dorian reached for the phone once more, thumb grazing the screen until the frozen image returned: Isla, mid-surprise, her face lit in a way that made the entire ballroom seem like an afterthought.
"They can call you what they like," he murmured, the words meant for no one but himself. "You'll still be the one they can't look away from."
The smirk curved his mouth again, sharper this time, alive with the pulse of challenge.
Let the Court fret. Let the kingdom gossip. He already knew the truth that mattered most—
He was not finished with her.