Chapter 32
The Ball
Idance longer than I mean to. Long enough that my feet ache and the wine dulls the edges of the room, long enough that laughter begins to feel almost real, that Prince Tamal’s charm makes the evening feel survivable rather than endured.
The music ends, and the next song begins.
The smell of champagne and sweat grows overwhelming, and I need air.
I slip away while the floor fills again, moving past clustered courtiers and flushed faces, past voices rising and falling without ever quite reaching me.
The doors to the balcony stand open, night drifting in cool and fragrant, and I step through them without looking back.
The Prince is already there.
Colsar sits against the balustrade, eyes closed, posture loose with indulgence. Jessamy lounges beside him, close enough to be unmistakable. She plucks grapes from a silver bowl and lifts them to his mouth one by one, smiling as he accepts them without opening his eyes.
The reaction is immediate, betraying me before I can suppress it.
Jessamy looks up. Her eyes meet mine, and something pleased moves across her face. I turn at once, humiliated by how quickly my body reacts, how fast I want to flee—
Her hand closes around my arm. “Leaving already?” she asks lightly.
I stop because I must. Because causing a scene would only feed her.
She leans closer, her voice meant only for me. “If you’re wondering,” she says, smiling, “the Prince tastes absolutely divine.”
The words strike exactly where she intends them to.
She adds softly, “You should try him sometime.”
Colsar does not open his eyes, but the muscles in his jaw tighten.
“You may have won the evening, Princess, but later tonight I’ll be the one winning,” she says, laughing cruelly. “Repeatedly.” Then her fingers leave my arm as though I have been dismissed.
I do not answer. Whatever reply might exist has burned away, leaving only heat and a hollow ache I refuse to name.
I walk. Past the doors, past the music, past the dancers and jeweled laughter.
Past Prince Tamal, who defended me without being asked.
Past the King, who watched and said nothing.
Past my husband, who sits there as though this moment were inevitable.
That silence hurts more than I want to admit.
I had excused the wedding night, blaming wine and chaos and telling myself it would never happen again.
But tonight leaves no room for such comforts, and a quiet understanding spreads through me with unwelcome clarity: it does not matter how beautiful my dress is, how carefully composed I appear, or how obedient I might become if I tried.
He will never treat me with kindness, and nothing in the contract requires that he do so.
My thoughts turn, almost helplessly, to Eravic and the quiet certainty in his voice when he spoke of his ships. When my ships are docked, you’re welcome. No questions. No debts.
At the time the offer had seemed impossible, the sort of kindness a stranger might extend for a single evening before the world resumed its usual shape. Yet now the words return with a strange and dangerous gravity, lingering in my mind long after the music fades.
For the first time since arriving at Rathmor, the thought of leaving no longer feels like a childish fantasy, but like a door quietly opening somewhere beyond the reach of this palace.
I find myself thinking of the sea, of wind and air and endless movement, and of a life where I am not made into something meant to be displayed and diminished.