Chapter 55
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Ayanna
The ballroom takes my breath away, which is ridiculous, because I’ve watched it transform from an empty space to a construction zone to something approaching beauty.
But seeing it now, filled with light and music and people in gowns and suits, seeing my vision made real, made alive—it’s something else entirely.
Black silk drapes the walls, champagne roses spill from towering arrangements, the string quartet plays “The Four Seasons” by Vivaldi in the corner, and everywhere I look, there are people.
Powerful people. Dangerous people.
My guests.
“Breathe,” Aric murmurs beside me, his hand warm at the small of my back. “You look like you’re about to either faint or conquer a small nation.”
“Can’t I do both?”
“Sequentially, perhaps. Simultaneously might send the wrong message.”
I glance up at him. He’s doing that thing where his face is perfectly neutral, but his eyes are amused—the Aric Vold equivalent of a belly laugh.
“I can’t believe I pulled this off,” I admit quietly.
“I can.”
“We’ve already established you’re biased.”
His thumb traces a circle on my lower back. “But also correct.”
We descend the final steps into the ballroom, and every head turns.
Here we go.
The next hour is a blur of faces and names and small talk that feels anything but small.
I smile until my cheeks ache. I shake hands until my fingers go numb.
I accept compliments on the venue, the decorations, and the music, and I deflect questions about Monsera, my father, and what it’s like to be married to the Norwegian heir with the effortless grace expected of a princess who grew up navigating royal functions.
Aric stays close, a steady presence at my side. He doesn’t hover exactly—he’s too controlled for that—but I’m aware of him constantly. The weight of his gaze when I’m talking to someone else. The way his hand finds my waist when a conversation runs too long.
He’s watching. Evaluating. Protecting, in his silent way. I don’t mind. After everything we’ve been through, his vigilance feels less like control and more like… care.
Don’t get soft, Ayanna. You’re in a room full of criminals. Stay sharp.
But it’s hard to stay sharp when I can still feel him between my thighs—a reminder of what happened in his office an hour ago. Every time I shift my weight, I remember. His mouth on me. His voice in my ear. Him inside me.
My cheeks flush.
I blame the champagne.
And then, across the room, I see them, and the warmth drains out of me all at once.
My father, seated at one of the far tables in a black tuxedo, a glass of wine turning slowly in his hand.
My mother, beside him in toned amaranth, her face arranged into the polite half smile she wears at every function I’ve ever seen her attend.
My father’s eyes are not on me. They’re on Aric, tracking him across the room.
My mother’s eyes find mine instead. And for a moment, I can’t read them at all—whether what’s in them is warning or apology or nothing.
She’s my own mother, and I can’t tell whose side she’s on.
I turn away before father can catch me looking.
“Muneca!” A warm, rich voice cuts through the crowd, and I turn to find Camila sweeping toward me in a deep magenta gown that fits the theme perfectly.
“Camila.” I accept her embrace gratefully.
She pulls back, holding me at arm’s length, those honey-brown cat eyes sweeping over my dress with open approval. “Look at you. Hosting galas now. Planning charity events. Making the rest of us look like we do nothing but drink champagne and cause problems.”
“Don’t you?”
“Yes, but that’s beside the point.” She grins and loops her arm through mine. “Come. Walk with me. I need to hear everything about how the Viking is treating you.”
I let her lead me toward the champagne table, aware of Aric’s gaze following us across the room. He’s deep in conversation with Nikos now, while Serena chats with Chiara and Hyun-seok a few feet away.
I talk with Camila until Marcelina finds me twenty minutes later.
She’s in a black dress with golden chain straps and a deep V, and I wonder if she has everything custom-made or if the universe simply bends to accommodate women like her, because she looks divine.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” she says, kissing my cheek.
“Thank you for coming. I know it’s a long trip from Las Vegas.”
“Please. Any excuse to escape.” She glances around with genuine appreciation. “Though I admit, I wasn’t expecting this level of… sophistication.”
“That’s what happens when you let the princess plan the party.”
“Point taken.”
We fall into easy conversation. She asks about Norway, about Aric, about whether I’ve learned to love the cold yet (I haven’t). I ask about Vegas, about her brother Oskar, who couldn’t make it.
Neither of us mentions Bobby, but I notice the tension she carries in her shoulders.
“Marcelina,” I say quietly when there’s a lull, “are you all right?”
She looks at me for a long moment. The mask doesn’t drop, but there’s a crack in the porcelain. “I’m managing.” She nods and smiles. “Some days better than others.”
“If you ever need anything—”
“I know.” She squeezes my hand. “I know you mean that. And someday I might take you up on it.” Her eyes dart between mine. “Someday soon.”
Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the moment.
“Marcy.” Bobby appears behind his wife, one hand closing around her elbow.
I see the way Marcelina’s spine stiffens. The way her smile freezes into something practiced. The way the warmth drains from her eyes, replaced by something carefully blank.
Red flag. Big, waving, impossible-to-miss red flag.
“Bobby.” She doesn’t turn to look at him. “I was just congratulating Ayanna on the gala.”
His eyes flick across the room—finding Aric, calculating the distance—before returning to me. “It’s very nice.” His gaze slides over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Very… elegant.”
“Thank you.”
“Marcy, we should circulate.” His grip tightens. “You’ve monopolized our hostess long enough.”
“I don’t mind,” I say coolly. “Marcelina’s delightful company.”
Bobby’s smile doesn’t waver, but his eyes harden. “Still. Wouldn’t want to keep you from your other guests.” He tugs her closer. “Come on, sweetheart.”
Marcelina glances at me, just for a second—and in that second, I see everything she isn’t saying. The apology. The resignation.
“It was lovely talking to you,” she says, perfectly composed. “We should do it again sometime.”
“We will,” I promise.
He leads her away, his hand still on her elbow, his smile still bright and charming and utterly false.
“You’re plotting something.” Aric appears at my side, a glass of whiskey in his hand I’m certain he hasn’t touched.
“I’m always plotting something.”
“Yes, but this is a specific kind of plotting.” He follows my gaze to where the Thornes have vanished into the crowd. “Something to do with the Thornes?”
“He’s horrible to her.”
“I know.”
“The way he grabbed her arm—”
“I saw.”
“Someone should—”
“Ayanna.” His voice is quiet but firm. “Not tonight.”
I want to argue. I want to push. But he’s right.
“Fine,” I concede. “But we’re talking about this later.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
His mouth curves. “You know,” he murmurs, “when I married you, I thought you’d be a liability.”
One of my brows rises on its own. “Charming. Truly.”
“A princess from a neutral country,” Aric continues, and I’ve long since accepted that my sarcasm simply slides off Aric. “No experience with our world. More likely to get herself killed than contribute anything useful.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is there a compliment coming, or should I be offended now?”
“I was wrong.” His fingers trail slowly along my jaw. “You aren’t a liability. You’re my greatest asset.”
It’s probably the least romantic compliment ever spoken. From anyone else, I might even have laughed. From Aric, it’s the highest praise he knows how to give. For a man raised by Vidar, that’s almost sacred. That’s his love language.
“I’m proud of you,” he says gently, and that catches me off guard. “I’m proud to have you beside me.” His thumb brushes my cheek now. “And I’m proud to call you my wife.”
I look at him, desperately trying not to let my emotions take over. He’s proud of me for hosting a gala. And all I can think is that he’s just given me the words he probably spent his entire childhood wishing someone would say to him. What those words would mean to the little boy Aric used to be.
But before I can tell him anything, Zahra approaches us.
“The flowers are lovely.” She smiles softly, and we turn to her. She’s beautiful tonight—dark hair swept into an elegant updo, olive skin glowing against a gold gown. “Champagne roses. My grandmother grew them. In Abu Dhabi.”
Alexei appears at her side, and we make small talk—and throughout it, I watch them.
They stand close but never touch. They speak to each other with courtesy but no warmth. There’s a distance between them that feels deliberate, a gap neither seems interested in closing.
An arrangement. Like mine was supposed to be.
But where Aric and I crashed through our walls and found something real on the other side, Alexei and Zahra seem trapped behind theirs. Two people sharing a life without sharing anything. It makes me sad in a way I don’t fully understand.
“We should find our seats,” Zahra says eventually. “It was lovely to see you again, Ayanna.”
They drift away into the crowd.
Dinner is served. Course after course of food I barely taste, because I’m too busy watching the room.
Nikos and Serena sit at the head table—Serena stunning in black as always, her hair in a high, wavy ponytail with a few strands framing her face.
Two tables over, Eero has somehow seated himself beside Naomi, and whatever he’s saying has my sister laughing into her napkin, his hand resting easy on the back of her chair like it belongs there.
But the sight of Naomi laughing is worth it.