He didn't remember putting his glass down.
Didn't hear Ainsworth mutter something about drowning in emerald or Marek's whispered "This is it."
Because in that moment, there was no gala.
No princess.
No empire.
There was only her.
Iris.
A single figure carved from dusk and starlight, standing in the center of the ballroom like she belonged to the music itself. Every note seemed pulled from her breath, every swell of the orchestra moving through her as if she'd become the instrument the world was waiting to hear.
And Aldrin—
Aldrin walked toward her like a man tracing constellations back to home.
The crowd split without instruction, without sound, as if the universe itself had taken a breath. Each step he took softened the noise around them. He wasn't just heading toward her—he was drawn, like gravity had finally found something heavier than regret.
She watched him come, chin slightly raised, her eyes betraying the storm he'd always tried to ignore.
Those eyes weren't just green. They were every forest he'd tried to get lost in. Every promise he never made because he didn't think he deserved to keep it. Every secret he whispered in empty rooms.
And she saw him—truly saw him—and still, she stayed.
His hand reached out, and her fingers met his without hesitation.
No words.
No need.
Just palms pressed, like they were praying in opposite directions, and he pulled her into the first step—
And the music exploded.
Violins surged like waves crashing against cliffs. The cello beneath them groaned with restraint, trying to hold back the flood.
And they danced.
God, they danced.
Not like two people who knew the steps—but like two souls who knew each other's weight, each other's rhythm, the shape of each other's ache. They didn't glide. They burned.
His hand splayed against the curve of her lower back, firm but reverent, like she was made of flame and scripture. Her fingers laced behind his neck, head tilted just enough to expose her throat, trusting him in a way that cracked something in his ribs.
She moved like she wanted to forget.
He held her like he never wanted to remember.
Every spin drew her closer. Every breath between them narrowed.
Their foreheads grazed once, and it felt like thunder beneath skin.
Aldrin was careful, always careful, but tonight—
He let the fire speak.
"I should let you go," he whispered into her ear as they turned.
"But you never do," she breathed back, voice shaky but certain.
He closed his eyes just for a second, the scent of her perfume—wild jasmine and heartbreak—stealing logic from his lungs. "You're dangerous in green."
"And you," she said, breath hitching as their hips aligned in the briefest second of unspoken hunger, "are dangerous when you look at me like that."
"What look?"
"Like you remember everything you're pretending to forget."
The music reached a crescendo, their bodies spinning beneath a thousand gazes that blurred into irrelevance. The ballroom had melted. All that was left was the way her fingers tightened when he dipped her just enough for her lips to almost touch his—
A pause.
A heartbeat.
And he pulled her back up, breath shallow, his thumb brushing a stray strand from her cheek.
They didn't kiss.
But God, it felt like they did.
The violins descended into something softer, aching now—less fire, more embers. The kind that stayed warm long after the flame had gone.
Aldrin leaned in, forehead brushing hers once again.
"Tell me to stop," he said, voice barely more than a plea.
She hesitated.
Then pulled him closer.
"I won't."
They stood there at the end of the dance, breaths tangled, bodies still swaying as if the music hadn't stopped. As if the orchestra itself didn't dare speak over the way she looked at him — emerald gaze softened by something too tender to name.
Neither let go.
The world had stopped, and they both knew it would begin again too soon.
Just one more second.
Just one more heartbeat in borrowed time.
And then—
A slow clap echoed from the shadows of the dance floor.
Marek, leaned half-drunk on Ainsworth's shoulder, his voice a melody of smug charm and soft awe:
"If love were music, that was the overture."
Ainsworth, who had long given up trying to decipher Aldrin's silences, let a half-smile pull at his lips. He adjusted his cuffs and added with a wistful note:
"Or the beginning of the crescendo that ruins kings."
They meant it lightly, but something unspoken hung in the air — a weight neither of them could laugh off.
Across the hall, navy silk rippled like storm water as Princess Ranya stood still as a statue carved from frost and ambition.
Her goblet stilled at her lips.
She'd watched every step. Every glance.
Not as a rival. Not yet.
But as someone who had never been refused a moment of attention until now.
And the way Aldrin looked at her — not Ranya — made something in the pit of her stomach coil like a viper.
She'd seen men crave her, kingdoms fall at her feet.
But she'd never seen a man remember himself in another woman's arms.
Not until tonight.
She didn't smile.
Didn't sulk.
She just watched, the crown in her blood simmering with silent fury.
And across from it all — by the bar, a little elevated, a little outside of it all — stood Isabella.
Watching with the calm of someone who had always known.
She didn't grin. That would be too vulgar for prophecy.
She simply took a sip of champagne and whispered, half to herself:
"The stars never lie. They only wait."
Her eyes never left Iris.
Because Iris — God, Iris was unraveling.
Still standing beside Aldrin, still drowning in the way his gaze refused to waver, she felt it — all of it.
The fire from the dance still clung to her skin.
Her heart was trying to race and still at the same time.
But more dangerous than the rhythm of his hand on her waist was the truth clawing at her throat.
She wanted to say something.
Anything.
But the moment was too fragile — a single word might shatter it into regret.
So she did what she always did when it got too much.
She slipped away.
Soft, measured steps.
Like it was part of the dance.
Like she hadn't just left pieces of herself in his hands.
Aldrin didn't stop her.
He didn't need to.
Because the way he looked at her back, the ache in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed as if they'd just lost something holy—
It said more than stopping ever could.
The music behind them picked up again. Louder, brighter. But the real melody had already ended.
And somewhere beyond the sound and silk and champagne,
two hearts quietly held their breath.