Ahce's POV
When I returned home that night, the chill of the ballroom still clung to my skin. The echo of the waltz, our waltz, wouldn't leave my mind. No matter how many times I told myself it wasn't him, that Richard Jing had died, my heart refused to obey reason.
The grand halls of the Pentecase manor were quiet when I arrived. Only the soft flicker of candlelight greeted me as I stepped inside. My great-grandfather was waiting in the study, as if he already knew the night would bring more than just a dance.
"Ahce," Duke Piel Pentecase said, his deep voice carrying both authority and age. "You did well tonight."
I bowed slightly. "It was merely a royal event, Your Grace."
He chuckled, that low, rumbling laugh of his that always felt like testing the weight of my composure.
"A royal event, yes. But one that sealed many eyes upon you." He reached for a parchment on the desk, the royal crest stamped in gold wax. "And it is time you take on what is yours by right."
