CLARA MOVED THROUGH THE glittering hall on Adrian's arm, her steps careful and uncertain, her gaze darting from one unfamiliar face to another. Never in her life had she seen such finery gathered in one place — the nobles in their silken gowns and tailored tuxedos, the soft clinking of champagne flutes, the muted laughter rippling beneath the strains of an elegant waltz. The air shimmered with perfume and wealth, and she felt herself shrink beneath it all.
Adrian guided her steadily, introducing her to people whose names she could not recall a moment later. They smiled, some politely, some too curiously — their eyes assessing her gown, her hair, perhaps even the way she clung to Adrian's arm as though it were her only lifeline.
When they approached the far end of the ballroom, the crowd parted as if on cue. The King and Queen stood upon the dais, radiant in poise and power. Clara's breath caught at the sight — she had never stood so close to royalty before. Every pair of eyes seemed to follow her as they crossed the marble floor, admiration mingling with envy and confusion.
'Do not stumble. For heaven's sake, do not stumble,' she told herself fiercely. Yet her legs felt as though they no longer belonged to her.
Adrian bowed deeply before Their Majesties, and she followed his lead into a curtsey — one she hoped resembled grace rather than awkwardness. Her hands trembled as she rose.
"Your Majesties," Adrian said smoothly, his voice deep, assured — the kind of voice that seemed to command attention even in silence.
The King's gaze, keen and discerning beneath his crown of gold, rested upon them. His expression softened into a smile when his eyes met Adrian's, and Clara sensed a familiarity between them — something unspoken yet warm. The Queen, elegant and composed, offered her a smile that was courteous, though faintly appraising.
"So this is the Duchess," the Queen said, her voice a gentle murmur that still managed to pierce through the din. "We have heard much about you, Lady Evelina."
Clara lifted her eyes, though not too high. "Your Majesty is kind," she said, careful to keep her tone even, respectful. "It is an honour to be in your presence."
The Queen's lips curved slightly, perhaps in approval, and the King inclined his head. "You are welcome to our court, Duchess," he said warmly. "Adrian, it pleases us to see you return."
Adrian bowed again, his composure unshaken. "Your Majesty honours me."
The King chuckled — a deep, resonant sound that surprised Clara — and his eyes turned to her once more. "You have chosen well, Adrian. She brings colour to your usual austerity."
Clara's cheeks warmed instantly. She attempted a smile but felt it falter before it reached her eyes. Chosen well? The words unsettled her more than they flattered. If only they knew.
Adrian's lips quirked faintly, though his expression remained calm. "She does indeed."
With a graceful motion from the Queen, the formality ended, and the orchestra began anew — violins sighing into the opening notes of a waltz.
Adrian turned toward her, extending his hand. "Would you care to dance?"
Her breath caught. For a moment, she wondered if she had heard him correctly. Dance? Her? The thought made her stomach twist. She could barely walk in these shoes, let alone waltz among nobles trained from birth to glide. Every instinct screamed to refuse — to claim weariness, perhaps a sudden headache. But she could feel eyes upon her again, waiting, watching.
Her hand trembled slightly as she placed it in his. "Yes," she said softly.
Adrian's eyes warmed as he led her to the center of the floor. The musicians swelled into a grand melody, and he drew her near — one hand resting at her waist, the other enclosing her gloved fingers. She could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint scent of cedar and something darker she could not name.
He guided her with practiced ease. She tried to follow, though more than once she stepped on his toes. Her face burned with mortification, but each time he merely chuckled under his breath, murmuring, "It's quite all right."
Not once did he correct her sharply or show the slightest trace of impatience. Slowly, her movements loosened; she began to anticipate his steps, her fear giving way to a strange, delicate exhilaration. For a fleeting moment, the world around them blurred — the chandeliers, the murmuring nobles, the soft rustle of gowns. It was only him and her, moving as if the world had narrowed to a single heartbeat shared between them.
When the music ceased, applause rippled through the hall. Clara's chest rose and fell, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. She curtsied once more, trying not to look too dazed, while Adrian bowed gracefully beside her.
Afterward, he moved off to greet a few acquaintances, and she seized the moment to retreat. Her feet ached, her temples throbbed, and the noise pressed against her like a weight. She found her way toward the terrace, craving the cool night air.
The chill outside was a welcome balm. She slipped off her heels, rubbing her sore feet as she sat upon a stone bench near the balustrade. The gardens below glimmered faintly under moonlight — a tranquil contrast to the golden frenzy within.
From where she sat, she could still glimpse the nobles through the tall glass doors, their laughter and movement distant now. They looked so at ease, as though they had always belonged there. She, on the other hand, felt like an intruder — a misplaced piece in a grand, glittering puzzle.
'What was she doing there trying to fit in?' she thought. 'She could never fit into this life.'
Her thoughts scattered when she saw him — Adrian, striding toward her with that unhurried, elegant gait that somehow managed to draw her eyes to him every time. He looked different tonight. The hardness she had often seen in him was softened, replaced by something quieter, almost tender.
When he stopped before her, he smiled — and she could not help the small, startled smile that rose to her own lips in answer before she quickly looked away.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," he said, his voice low, carrying a warmth that surprised her.
She raised her head slightly, meeting his eyes. "Here I am," she replied softly, half expecting a rebuke for her disappearance.
Instead, he shrugged off his coat and draped it around her shoulders, the fabric still warm from his body. "You must be cold," he said gently, tucking it around her.
Clara blinked at him, uncertain. "You're not… going to scold me for leaving?" she asked hesitantly.
His brows drew together in mild amusement. "And why would I scold my wife for stepping away when she was uncomfortable?"
Her breath caught. Wife. The word startled her. Did he just call her his wife?
"I understand," he continued softly. "You did well tonight."
She said nothing, only lowered her gaze, unsure how to respond. When he sat beside her, the silence between them felt neither heavy nor strained. It was… gentle.
After a moment, she felt his eyes on her. When she turned, he reached out — slow, deliberate — and brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
"You look stunning tonight," he said quietly.
Clara froze, her breath hitching. For a heartbeat, she could not think. His gaze held hers, steady and sincere, and in that moment she could neither look away nor find the words she wanted.
Her heart fluttered again — not from nerves this time, but from something warmer, unfamiliar, and dangerous if she named it.