The Devonshire Townhouse had never glittered brighter.
Silk banners draped from the tall, arched windows, their hems catching the candlelight in golden waves. Strings of enchanted crystal floated in the air, chiming like laughter as they twinkled above the ballroom. Outside, nobles spilled from carriages lined in velvets and plumes, ushered in by liveried servants as if arriving at court itself.
But tonight, the court came to Devonshire.
Belle's debutante ball was the event of the season—no, of the decade.
Every noblewoman envied it. Every socialite whispered about it. And every eye, from merchant lords to marquesses, fell on the girl called the Flower of the Empire.
Fifteen now. Graceful, lovely. All chestnut curls and luminous hazel eyes that softened with shyness but sparkled when she smiled.
She wore a gown of rose gold and pearls, delicate enough to make even seasoned ladies-in-waiting draw breath. On her head, a circlet of moonstone nestled among petals of woven silk. She looked like something out of a storybook.
The Empress herself had complimented her. The Emperor, though stoic, offered a nod of approval—something rare and powerful in courtly terms.
Crown Prince Killian stood tall in his black military formal, the sharp cut of his uniform accentuating the regal lines of his frame. A silver sash crossed his chest like moonlight over obsidian. He had grown into his face—no longer a boy, but a man carved from the cold elegance of royalty. So striking, so untouchable, that noble ladies nearly forgot to breathe in his presence.
Beside him, Second Prince Nathaniel was his perfect foil—warm where Killian was cool, charming where he was austere. With a smile that could unlace a duchess's composure, Nathaniel offered Belle his hand for the second dance of the evening. He leaned in, whispered something playful.
Belle blushed, radiant.
And the crowd watched the imperial bloodline spin in golden light.
At the far edge of the ballroom, Duke Damon Devonshire stood with a glass of wine in hand, watching the spectacle unfold with the distant expression of a man caught between memory and inevitability—trying, perhaps, to breathe in both the past and the future at once.
"She was a menace when she first learned to crawl," he murmured, almost to himself.
The orchestra swelled, laughter rang through gilded arches, yet Diana heard him clearly. Standing beside him in a sapphire gown that caught the candlelight like starlight on water, she smiled—gently, knowingly.
"She followed Vivica everywhere," she said, voice soft, touched with warmth. "Tried to stand like her. Hold her teacup like her. Even turn the pages of her books the same way." Her eyes glimmered with quiet amusement. "More than you realize, Damon… your legitimate daughter is Belle's idol."
He didn't speak at first. His gaze remained locked on Belle—gliding down the marble steps like a vision from a dream, radiant in silk and confidence, laughter curling from her lips as if she belonged to this world of chandeliers and crowns.
"She's everything you ever wanted now," he said at last, a whisper more to the glass in his hand than the woman beside him.
Diana said nothing in return. But the corner of her mouth curled—just barely—into something between pride and irony.
Damon looked down. The music swelled again. Belle was laughing as she danced with the second prince, her movements graceful, her charm effortless. Around her, the crowd bloomed with approval.
But Damon remembered a smaller girl once—sitting beside a stone wall in the North, watching Vivica draw maps with colored charcoal. He remembered Belle trying to hold a compass upside down, insisting she could draw a battle plan, too.
"She never called me father," he said absently. "Vivica, I mean."
Diana didn't respond to that.
Because they both knew—some things a crown couldn't fix. And some things, no ball, no title, no whispered court rumor… could ever replace.
**
The music dimmed. Conversations died into whispers.
All eyes turned as the orchestra fell silent, and the Emperor of Ashford rose from his seat at the front of the ballroom, a golden chalice in hand. His silver-embroidered robe shimmered beneath the chandeliers, the weight of his crown matched only by the authority in his voice.
Standing beside him, the Empress smiled with regal poise, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. And just a step to their right, Duke Damon Devonshire and Lady Diana stood together—she radiant in sapphire, he austere in deep navy. Their presence at the Emperor's side was all the confirmation the nobility needed. But still, the room held its breath for the words.
"Tonight," the Emperor declared, his voice calm and commanding, "we celebrate not only the debut of Lady Belle Devonshire, the Flower of the Empire—but the union of two great houses, and the promise of a future that will strengthen our realm."
The nobles stirred. Murmurs swept the ballroom like a gust of wind.
The Emperor lifted his hand.
"It is with pride, and the full blessing of the Imperial House, that I hereby announce the engagement of my son, Crown Prince Killian of Ashford, to Lady Belle of House Devonshire."
Applause erupted like thunder. Glasses clinked. Noble ladies gasped behind fans, and Belle—on the steps just below—smiled in luminous disbelief, her chestnut curls catching the light as she blinked up at the imperial dais.
Killian stood beside her now, having stepped forward, his expression unreadable beneath the layers of princely composure. His gloved hand extended toward Belle with all the grace of a future emperor, but his golden eyes flicked, just for a breath, toward his father... and then to Duke Damon.
Damon's jaw was tense, but he offered a measured nod.
Diana, ever the actress in the court's theater, pressed a hand to her chest with a glowing smile that masked the truth in her eyes—eyes that flicked briefly to her husband, to read what he would not say aloud.
Cheers echoed. The nobles beamed.
And yet, above the clamor of celebration, one could almost hear the quiet between Killian's steady breaths.
Not for Vivica.
Not for choice.
But for duty.
**
The moon hung high over the estate's garden, casting silver light on the marble path and gilding the tips of the rose bushes. The night air carried the faintest scent of wisteria, curling around the quiet figure standing at the garden's edge.
Crown Prince Killian stood where he once had five years ago—when he was only thirteen, full of questions and wonder. Now eighteen, his frame had grown taller, shoulders broader beneath his formal coat, but something in his eyes still mirrored the boy he had been.
He clenched his gloved hands at his sides.
That night… under this same moon, Vivica had stood right here. Alone. Unbothered. Unbowed. Her eyes... those impossibly green eyes, had glinted like jade beneath the stars.
He had written her. Dozens of letters. Every few weeks. Describing his days, his thoughts, his hopes. Letters that sailed across the sea to Kroux Empire—none of which had been returned.
Not a single one.
He closed his eyes.
Why does it still hurt?
He hadn't asked her to love him. He barely understood what he was feeling himself. But silence—her silence—was louder than any rejection could ever be.
Behind him, soft footsteps crunched on the path.
He didn't turn until he heard her voice.
"So this is where you disappear to, Your Highness." Belle spoken lightly, her hands folded before her in a delicate ivory gown embroidered with gold. "I thought I might find you out here."
Killian then turned. His expression, cool and composed, betrayed little.
"Just… getting some air."
Belle stepped beside him, not too close, and followed his gaze to the stars above the hedge.
"It's strange," she said quietly. "All my life I dreamed of my debutante ball. And yet, the moment it happened, I wanted to run outside to breathe."
Killian let out a soft breath. "And now, you're betrothed to a man who was chosen for you."
Belle tilted her head, her eyes unreadable. "As were you."
He didn't argue. Instead, his voice dropped into something more somber. "How do you feel about it?"
She took a moment before answering.
"I feel… honored. Nervous. But mostly," she turned to look at him, "ready to do my part. I know what being Crown Princess means. I'll do my best to help you carry that burden."
He looked at her then, not as a noble lady or a porcelain doll being paraded through the ballroom—but as someone who had grown, just as he had, beneath the weight of expectations.
He hesitated before speaking. "What if you fall in love with someone else? You still have more freedom than I do to choose."
Belle's expression softened.
"It's true," she said. "Love happens. Like the rain. Sometimes it falls where we least expect it. But I also believe… love is something we can nurture. We water it. We protect it. And with time, it can grow."
Killian was silent.
He still thought of emerald eyes and moonlit silence. He still remembered Vivica's sharpness, her spine of steel. But in this moment, Belle's words struck something deeper than sentiment.
Something honest.
"I don't know if I believe that," he admitted, his voice low. "But I respect it."
Belle smiled, a quiet smile without pretense. "Then let's start there. With respect."
He looked at her, really looked this time. And though his heart didn't race, though the ache of another girl still lingered in the corners of his mind… he bowed his head once, gently.
"Very well."
And beside the garden where he had once stood, alone in his longing, Killian stood now with Belle—not in love, but in understanding.
And perhaps… that was enough.
For now.