The palace ballroom glittered brighter than a constellation. Chandeliers spilled light over polished marble floors, tables dressed in silk, and guests dressed as though couture itself had descended from the heavens.
Amara adjusted the neckline of her gown for what felt like the hundredth time. Her chest tightened with anticipation—or maybe dread. She was not exactly looking forward to the evening.
The gala was in honor of visiting dignitaries from Zuberi and several other allied nations. Cameras, reporters, and palace spies (who all probably had Instagram accounts) roamed freely. And of course, Prince Kofi was here.
He had arrived fashionably late, of course. Hands in his pockets, tailored jacket cutting clean lines, hair that was almost intentionally messy, and that grin—the one capable of making any crown feel heavy.
Amara felt the magnetic pull before she even saw him.
"Focus," she muttered to herself, glaring at the crystal goblet in front of her. "You are a princess. You are engaged. You are not a disaster waiting to happen."
Her fiancé, Prince Adewale, leaned in, clearly sensing her tension. "You're quiet tonight."
"I'm conserving energy for the inevitable chaos," she whispered.
He arched a brow. "There will be no chaos."
She snorted quietly. "You clearly haven't met him."
Kofi was making the rounds, charming ambassadors, posing for photos, and—Amara was certain—scanning the room until he found her.
And of course, he did.
Their eyes met across the ballroom, a spark igniting so fast that Amara could almost hear the sound. She shifted, hoping her movement would break the magnetic pull, but it didn't.
It never did.
When the orchestra began the opening notes of a slow waltz, Kofi was suddenly at her side. Not in an official, courteous way. No, he slid into place like the world had bent for him.
"You again," she muttered, exasperated, though the corner of her lips twitched.
"You always look better when you're annoyed," he said, brushing an imaginary speck off her shoulder.
"Flatterer," she said, but her pulse betrayed her.
They moved together in sync, as if the music had written their steps for them. She could feel every calculated, maddening inch of him close enough to be dangerous. Every turn brought them nearer, and every step was a battlefield of restraint.
"Do you ever sleep?" she hissed, leaning in just enough that he could hear her breath.
"I only dream of causing trouble," he replied smoothly.
Her hand tightened on his. Not that she wanted to admit it.
"You're going to get me in trouble," she warned.
"Already did," he said softly, lips dangerously close to hers. "But it's worth it."
Her heart skipped. That word—worth—carried weight she didn't want to acknowledge.
And then the crowd gasped.
Some reporter—or perhaps a mischievous courtier—had snapped a photo at the exact moment Kofi's hand brushed hers on the dance floor. The click echoed like a cannon through the social media world. Within seconds, the palace's official channels were buzzing.
"PRINCE KOFI AND PRINCESS AMARA: DANCE OF THE ENEMIES?""LOOKING TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT AT THE GALA!"
Amara's face burned hotter than a desert sun. She wanted to melt into her gown and disappear behind the nearest candelabra.
Kofi leaned in, just close enough for only her to hear. "You're trending again."
"I could strangle you," she muttered, though her tone lacked conviction.
"I'm listening," he said. "And I like hearing your voice."
Before she could respond, Adewale cleared his throat sharply. "Amara." His gaze was icy. "Would you care to step outside with me?"
"Yes, of course," she said, her voice clipped, her composure returning, though her heart was still wild.
Kofi released her hand with the politest of smirks and a nod that promised mischief yet to come.
Outside on the balcony, Adewale's face was a storm. "Do you realize what you're doing? Everyone saw."
"I didn't ask for his presence," she snapped, exasperated. "And I didn't do anything inappropriate!"
"You smiled at him," Adewale accused.
"It was a reflex," she said. "I can't control the fact that he exists and makes my blood misbehave!"
He ran a hand through his hair. "You're impossible."
"And yet, clearly irresistible," she whispered to herself, catching her reflection in the glass.
Behind them, the doors opened slightly. Kofi's eyes were still on her. That grin again. And just like that, she knew: he would haunt her every gala, every whispered conversation, every heartbeat.
And perhaps… she wanted him to.