Chapter 178: The Unwritten Waltz
Eva slipped out from behind one of the tall marble columns lining the edge of the ballroom, her posture perfect, her breath calm — but inside her chest, her heart fluttered erratically. The heat from Aristea's hug still lingered on her arms, and Eva could feel the place where the other girl's cheek had brushed against hers as if it had left a mark. She shouldn't have stayed so long. Papa would be watching. He always was.
The murmurs of the elite swirled around her like perfumed smoke. Laughter bubbled from crystal flutes. Conversations about military placements, trade negotiations, and unspoken alliances took place between delicate sips of imported wine and expertly plated amuse - bouches. No one paid much attention to the little girl weaving between them in pale ivory silk — until, of course, they did.
And Reginald was watching.
He stood beneath the arch of the northern gallery, tall and precise in his midnight - blue suit, his arms loosely folded. But his expression was anything but casual. The moment Eva's eyes met his, his gaze sharpened like a blade. She flinched instinctively, her legs faltering in motion before she steeled herself.
She had to face him. She would bow. She would apologize quietly for disappearing. She would —
"Wait," Aristea whispered.
Eva felt a soft but firm grip on her wrist. She turned, startled, only to see Aristea had followed her all the way into the grand hall. The older girl looked unconcerned by the weight of the room, by the social pressures that hovered invisibly above everyone's heads like crowns waiting to be seized.
"Stay. Just a little longer," Aristea said. Her voice was soft — but confident, calm, and entirely in control. There was no pleading in it. Just certainty.
Before Eva could respond, Aristea stepped closer and wrapped her in a full embrace — unapologetically, possessively. Not hidden. Not subtle. Her arms settled around Eva's waist with practiced ease, chin brushing her shoulder, and Eva felt herself pulled into a warmth she hadn't expected.
Her breath caught. They were still on the balcony, half visible through the open doors. People inside had turned. A few watched. Most tried not to.
Aristea didn't care.
The hug wasn't romantic in the traditional sense — it was a declaration. A quiet but unmistakable signal to the glittering room inside:
This one is mine.
She didn't say it aloud. But it was there in the tilt of her head, the way her fingers rested lightly on Eva's lower back. She didn't need to say dibs. She didn't have to glare or posture.
She simply claimed.
Eva stood stunned, blinking up at her, the thud of her heart like the deep beat of a ceremonial drum. She wasn't sure what startled her more — the hug or how natural it felt to be held this way. Aristea's perfume was fresh and wintery, like moonlit woods, and her silver - blonde hair tickled Eva's cheek.
Inside, a few older guests exchanged small glances over their champagne flutes. Not mocking — just… knowing. The way adults always seemed to understand more than they ever admitted. A quiet murmur spread in subtle ripples. Someone chuckled behind a gloved hand. Another raised a brow, like they'd just witnessed a silent alliance being forged.
Aristea leaned in close, lowering her voice to a whisper meant only for Eva.
"I just wanted them to know," she murmured, lips brushing the shell of Eva's ear. "No one gets to have you… unless I say so."
Eva flushed deep pink, breath catching audibly. Her voice trembled as she tried to reply, not pulling away, not even pretending to want to.
"That's… kind of intense."
Aristea smiled. "I know."
Eva was too stunned to answer. It wasn't just the closeness or the warmth of Aristea's arms — it was the certainty. The ease with which she cut through fear. She let her hands rest against Aristea's back for a moment longer before gently pulling away, unsure of what her papa might say or do next.
But Aristea had other plans.
"Dance with me."
The words seemed to explode in Eva's ears.
The hall had gone quieter — only a touch — but she heard it. Heads turned. A few gasps. Murmurs blossomed like spider lilies among the crowd. "Isn't that the Rousseau – Parnassos heir?" someone whispered. "And who is that child? The one she's asking to dance?" came another voice.
"She's none other than the Ainsley girl, I think. They're climbing. Always climbing."
"No pedigree," another voice said, dismissive.
"Strange, isn't it? Rousseau – Parnassos rarely engage with nobodies."
Eva froze. Her heart thumped. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She didn't dare glance at her father.
But Aristea was already leading her forward.
"Don't listen to them," she whispered as they stepped into the clearing center of the ballroom, where couples had begun to thin. "Ignore them. Even your papa. Just for now."
The musicians, cued by silent understanding, shifted their tune to a slower waltz. The light overhead dimmed ever so slightly, casting golden shadows on the polished marble floor.
Eva took a shaky breath. She was good at waltzing. Her instructors had made sure of that. But this — dancing with Aristea, under the gaze of so many sharp eyes — felt like performing without armor.
Still, she let Aristea place one hand gently on her waist and hold the other lightly. They moved into step. Artemis led, slow and steady, and Eva followed instinctively.
She didn't stumble.
The music enveloped them — graceful strings and lilting piano. Around them, conversation paused. The aristocracy watched. Some curious. Some amused. Some visibly disapproving.
Reginald said nothing.
Eva kept her chin lifted, eyes forward, but she could feel the hush of judgment circling her like wolves. But then Aristea leaned in, her breath brushing the shell of Eva's ear.
"You're doing beautifully," she whispered.
And just like that, the noise dulled.
They glided in rhythm. Aristea wasn't just a good dancer — she made Eva feel as though they were part of something private, something protected. The girl's hand never gripped too tight. Her steps adjusted to Eva's rhythm. She guided without domination. She made Eva feel capable, light, like the music had bent to accommodate her.
"I thought you'd be nervous," Aristea said, her voice playful now.
"I am nervous," Eva admitted in a breath. "I just… hide it."
"You're good at that." Aristea's eyes twinkled. "Maybe a little too good."
The song neared its final crescendo. The turn slowed. Eva's heart had begun to calm — until Aristea did something entirely unexpected.
Just before the last note, Aristea bent slightly, lifted Eva from the floor with a sure motion, and kissed her forehead.
Gasps echoed around the ballroom like falling china. Eva's face turned crimson. Her body froze in Aristea's arms. Her lips parted in a breathless noise, but no sound came out.
She could feel it — everyone looking. Everyone judging. But in that moment, she also felt something else: Aristea's arms, steady and warm. A bubble of laughter about to rise in her throat. The quiet thrill of being seen — not as Ainsley — not as Maxwell — Lioré. Not as a nobody. But as someone worth the attention of Aristea Arethusa Celestine Artemis Kallistráti Rousseau – Parnassos.
She carefully masked her face. She kept it still, expression blank. But Aristea caught it.
The tips of Eva's ears, a deep red.
Aristea smirked as she gently set Eva down.
The music faded. Guests applauded politely, some with confusion, others with restrained admiration. A few barely clapped at all. Reginald remained where he stood, unreadable.
Eva tried to move away, but Aristea didn't release her hand.
"Join me again," she said softly. "Ignore them. Even him."
Eva blinked, her hand in Aristea's. The offer wasn't just about another dance. It was an invitation — unspoken, yet deeply real. To belong. To be beside someone who saw past what the world called her. Someone who didn't care that she was an Ainsley or a Maxwell — Lioré or nothing at all.
Her pulse hammered in her throat.
"I shouldn't," she whispered. "He'll be upset."
"I don't care," Aristea said, her voice low, calm. "And neither should you."
The quiet fire in her gaze startled Eva. It was as if Aristea had decided something — not about the world, but about her.
"You really don't care what anyone thinks of you," Eva murmured.
"I care what you think of me," Aristea answered without hesitation.
Eva's breath caught again.
The music slowly resumed its rhythm. The crowd moved on, though more than a few still whispered. Reginald hadn't come forward. Yet. But the tension lingered.
Eva wasn't ready to let go of Aristea's hand either.
"I'll stay," she said finally, barely audible.
And Aristea smiled — not the smirk of earlier, but something gentler.
"Good."
They walked off the dance floor hand in hand. Neither one said anything more, but in the space between their silence bloomed a kind of understanding that didn't need words. One born not of alliance or diplomacy — but choice. Of affection. Of defiance.
In a hall full of names and pedigrees and power, something real had begun to form.
And neither of them would let go of it.