21. 20 #2
Mabel stayed by the window, her reflection faint in the glass. She watched it flicker, half in shadow, half in light. And waited.
The music behind her swelled again, laughter rising from the crowd. Mabel stayed by the window, her fingers brushing the cool stone of the sill, her thoughts drifting somewhere far from the ballroom.
Then—a soft clearing of a throat.
She turned. And froze.
Lance stood a few paces away, dressed in formal robes of deep red and black, a silver clasp shaped like a stag’s head fastened his cloak at the shoulder.
His locs were braided back, and he looked every inch the nobleman he wasn’t born to be.
But it was his eyes that caught her, steady, unreadable, and far too familiar.
“Lance,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re here.”
“I guess I am,” he said, his voice calm, guarded.
Mabel’s eyes flicked toward the crowd, toward the place where Theodore had disappeared.
“I thought parties weren’t your thing,” she hummed, trying for lightness, though her fingers curled slightly against the window ledge.
“They still aren’t.” He laughed softly, the sound low and familiar. “But … I came for you.”
She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself. “Lance—”
“No, not like that …” he cut in gently, shaking his head. “Just here to show my support.”
His smile wavered, and for a heartbeat, the mask slipped. Mabel saw it then, the ache in his eyes, the fracture beneath the words. His longing unspoken. The hurt barely hidden.
And still, he stood there.
For her.
“Care to dance?” Lance asked, extending a hand toward her, his voice gentle but steady.
Mabel’s gaze dropped to his outstretched palm. She didn’t take it. Not yet. Hesitation crept across her face, not fear, but something quieter. More complicated.
“I … have to ask Theo …” she muttered, her voice barely audible. The nickname slipped out naturally, but she saw the way something flickered in Lance’s eyes at the sound of it—a brief, involuntary wince, quickly masked.
“Ask me what?” came Theodore’s voice, warm and easy as he returned, two crystal glasses in hand.
Mabel turned, accepting the wine with a grateful nod. “Lance has asked to dance,” she said softly, lifting the glass to her lips and letting the sip shield her expression.
Theodore paused, just for a beat. A scowl tugged at the edge of his mouth before he smoothed it away. His gaze shifted to Lance—not cold, but watchful.
The moment stretched, taut and delicate.
Theodore held Lance’s gaze for a moment longer, the smile on his lips never quite reaching his eyes. “Of course,” he said at last, his tone smooth, too smooth. “One dance won’t hurt anything.”
But beneath the civility, there was something else. An edge. A warning.
Mabel felt it. So did Lance.
She downed the rest of her wine in a single gulp, the bitter taste burning slightly at the back of her throat. It wasn’t enough to still the rhythm pounding in her chest, but it dulled the edges. Just enough.
She turned to Lance, her hand halfway to his—
But Theodore moved first.
He stepped in, cupping her cheek with a practiced tenderness that felt suddenly too deliberate. And then he kissed her. It was a kiss meant to be seen. Possessive. Final.
The crowd didn’t notice. But Lance did.
When Theodore pulled away, his thumb lingered at the corner of her mouth, brushing away a trace of wine. “Enjoy your dance,” he said, but she could feel the warning in his tone.
Mabel blinked, breath caught somewhere between her ribs. Then, slowly, she turned to Lance and placed her hand in his. She ignored the warmth that filled her as their skin touched.
The band shifted seamlessly into a new melody, slower, more intimate. Around them, couples drifted into motion, the ballroom once again alive with candlelight.
Lance guided her onto the floor with grace, his hand settling at her waist, the other gently enclosing hers. His touch was careful, as if he were holding something fragile. Or trying not to hold on too tightly.
They moved in silence at first, the space between them filled only by the music and the echo of Theodore’s kiss still burning on her lips.
Then Mabel spoke, her voice soft but steady. “You look charming tonight. I’ve never seen you so dressed up.”
Lance’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “I clean up when it matters.” His eyes met hers, not with the boldness of before, but with something quieter. Sadder. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”
“I notice everything about you,” she said, and for a moment, the truth of it hung between them like a thread pulled taut.
She dropped his gaze the second she heard the words leave her lips.
She felt Lance’s hand shift on her back, hesitant.
But he stayed quiet, and they danced on, the world spinning gently around them, but neither of them truly moved.
The silence between them stretched, full of words unsaid, of glances that lingered too long, of footsteps echoing in time with a past neither of them had quite outrun.
Mabel’s gaze drifted over Lance’s shoulder, toward the edge of the ballroom. Theodore stood there, still holding his half-finished drink, his expression unreadable. But his eyes, they hadn’t left her once.
Lance’s brow lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “He’s watching us,” he hummed, the words edged with something bitter. “Of course he is.”
“You know why he’s watching us,” Mabel said with a scoff, a playful lilt in her voice.
Lance’s grip tightened just slightly on her waist. “Because he doesn’t trust me.”
“Because he knows me,” she corrected, her smile faint, almost wistful. “And he knows what we were.”
They moved in another slow circle, the world blurring around them.
Mabel cleared her throat. “How—how have you been?” she asked, fingers flexing along his shoulder. Her heart stuttered in her chest as she caught a glimpse of the pain in his eyes before he cooled it with indifference.
“I’ve been better,” he admitted. “Watching the person I love avoid me hasn’t been the easiest.”
“It’s … it’s not easy for me either, Lance,” she breathed out, brows furrowing.
Then Lance spoke, his voice barely above the music, but sharp enough to cut through it. “Why are you doing this?” he asked. “Why are you going through with the wedding?”
Mabel’s breath caught, but she didn’t let it settle. “Is this why you came?” she snapped.
“No,” he said, letting out a soft groan. “I came to say congratulations.”
Her tone softened as she looked into his deep, golden-brown eyes. “Then say it.”
Silence passed between them for a beat as they danced. Lance lifted his arm to spin her, and when she landed back in his arms, he dipped her down slow, gentle. Her cheeks flushed.
“Congratulations,” he whispered, lingering for a moment longer before he pulled her back into him in a rush.
“Thank you,” she said, voice barely above a breath.
The music swelled around them. The other dancers spun past in a blur of color and laughter, unaware that something fragile had cracked open in the middle of the floor.
“You didn’t answer me. Why?” he pressed.
She didn’t meet his eyes. “You know why.”
“Was it Theodore or your father who convinced you to throw us away?” he bit.
She stumbled over her feet, but Lance steadied her, his hand tightening on her waist.
“Why does it matter?” she whispered.
“It matters.”
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for only a moment before flicking her gaze to meet his.
“My father,” she admitted. “I spoke with Theodore after he … found out. But I wasn’t ready to give you up.
I don’t think I ever could be.” A quiet, broken laugh escaped despite herself.
“Then … my father arrived early that morning. He knew. He—” Her voice trembled, her eyes widening.
Lance spun them around, making sure she wasn’t in Theodore’s line of sight. Then, hesitantly, he pressed a kiss to her temple. She could have melted against him. Could have burst into tears over his simple act.
“It’s alright,” he said, though it came out pained. A sick, twisted part of him found relief in her answer, but it still made his stomach twist with dread. Dread for her, for the future she was being forced into.
She didn’t leave him for Theodore. She left him in fear for her own life.
The music drifted to a close, the final notes dissolving into the golden hush of the ballroom. Lance’s hand lingered at Mabel’s waist, his touch hesitant, as if letting go meant surrendering something he hadn’t yet named.
For a breath, he held on.
Then, with a quiet exhale, he released her.
He stepped back and bowed, precise and formal.
Mabel dipped into a curtsy, her movements graceful but distant, her eyes fixed somewhere just past his shoulder.
No words passed between them.
They parted without ceremony—Lance slipping into the crowd like a shadow swallowed by candlelight, while Mabel turned and made her way back to Theodore’s side. His hand found hers the moment she reached him, grounding her once more in the role she was meant to play.
But her pulse continued to beat to the rhythm of a different dance.