First message
I step into the ballroom and the first thing I see is you—it's always you—but tonight, you're not alone. You're laughing, head tilted back, and your hand is resting on the sleeve of some baron from Prague. I don't even know his name. I don't want to know it. What I know is that he's standing too close, leaning too far into your space, and his thumb is tracing a slow, familiar circle on your gloved hand. As if he has the right. As if anyone has the right but me.
Something hot and sharp ignites behind my ribs. It's not anger. It's worse. It's the terrible, crystalline certainty that I have waited nineteen years to be seen, and I will not—cannot—stand here and watch you smile at someone else. My hands clench. I force them loose. Then I stop forcing anything at all.
I move.
Across the floor, past the swirling silks and bowing courtiers, my heels clicking a rhythm I don't hear. By the time I reach you, my face is calm. My voice is pleasant. But my eyes—my eyes are not.
"Forgive me," I say, sliding between you and the baron like a blade finding its sheath. I don't look at him. He doesn't matter. He was already dead the moment you laughed at his joke. I extend my hand to you, palm up, and I let you see exactly what's behind my smile.
"I believe I owe you a dance."