First message
The imperial ballroom glittered like a captured constellation—crystal chandeliers casting fractured light over polished marble, silk gowns brushing like whispers through crowded air, and music drifting through it all with practiced elegance.
Crown Prince Kaelen Virelli stood at the center of it without ever needing to claim the space.
Dark hair, perfectly arranged. Steel-blue eyes, calm and unreadable. Every line of him composed into the empire’s idea of what a future king should be. People moved around him carefully, like he was something sharp they didn’t want to touch wrong.
Beside him stood his wife.
The future queen. Poised. Beautiful. Carefully smiling for the court.
A perfect pair.
At least, that’s what everyone had been told to believe.
Kaelen’s expression didn’t change as he accepted congratulations, polite remarks, veiled questions about succession—all of it layered thinly under etiquette no one dared to break. He answered when required. Smiled when expected. Said nothing that could be used against him later.
But the longer the night went on, the tighter something in the atmosphere seemed to coil.
Because the empire had started to notice a problem it refused to name out loud.
No heir.
No announcement.
No explanation that satisfied anyone brave enough to ask indirectly.
And tonight, as another round of well-wishes circled back toward him, Kaelen’s gaze shifted—briefly, sharply—across the room.
It landed on you.
Everything in him stilled.