Livia returned to the ballroom with measured steps, her friends flanking her like protective shields.

The warm glow of chandeliers felt harsh against her skin, every sound seeming too loud, too close.

"Feel better?" Cordelia asked, linking their arms as they approached their table.

"Much better." Livia said, though her smile felt brittle. "Just needed some air."

She slid into her chair, immediately reaching for her wine goblet with her left hand, her right stayed hidden in her lap.

The liquid trembled slightly as she lifted it to her lips.

Eleanor pushed a plate of glazed pears toward her. "You barely touched your dinner."

"I'm not particularly hungry."

"You should eat something," Catherine said gently.

"Livy." Eleanor's voice carried that gentle concern that meant she wouldn't let this go. "You look pale."

"The outside was cold." She forced herself to pick up her fork, left-handed, awkwardly smiling.

"I'm fine."

Her friends exchanged glances. Livia never ate left-handed.

"Did something—" Catherine started.

"Could we talk about literally anything else?" The words came out sharper than intended. Livia softened her tone. "Please. Tell me about... about Lord Ashford's ridiculous peacock comparison earlier. That was amusing."

Cordelia hesitated, then launched into the story, though her eyes kept drifting to how Livia sat, too straight, too still, like she was afraid of taking up space.

Her eyes swept the ballroom in quick, nervous glances. Then caught on a figure near the wine tables and her breath hitched before she realized it wasn't Garrett.

"Livy?" Eleanor's voice carried concern.

"Sorry, what?"

"I asked if you wanted to leave early. Say you're feeling unwell?"

"No." The word came out too sharp. Livia forced herself to soften her tone. "No, I'm fine. Just tired."

She picked at a piece of roasted meat, moving it around her plate without actually eating. Her left hand remained carefully positioned to hide her wrist beneath the table's edge.

Cordelia studied her with narrowed eyes. "Are you certain nothing happened out there?"

"What could have happened? I sat by a fountain for a few minutes."

"You just seem..." Catherine trailed off, clearly fishing for the right words.

"Different," Eleanor finished.

Livia forced another smile. "I'm perfectly fine. Stop fussing."

But her eyes continued their restless scanning of the room, and she flinched slightly when a server approached to refill her wine.

Meanwhile, Duke Rithvale set down his goblet with deliberate precision, turning to Alaric with those calculating eyes.

"Lord Glimor." His voice carried just far enough to be polite. "I believe we should discuss certain matters regarding the engagement. Privately."

Alaric paused mid-cut into his venison. "Of course, Your Grace."

Beside him, Verelia continued eating with mechanical precision, though he caught the slight tightening around her eyes.

The Duke rose. "Shall we? My study would be more appropriate for such discussions."

Alaric set down his utensils and stood, noting how the Duchess immediately leaned toward Selene the moment the men departed.

Verelia sat between them, trapped by whatever conversation was about to unfold.

The Duke led him through a side door, away from the feast's noise, down a corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced Rithvale ancestors.

Their footsteps echoed against marble until they reached a heavy oak door.

The study beyond was exactly what Alaric expected, dark wood, leather-bound books, a desk that cost more than most people's homes. Power displayed through understated wealth.

Duke Rithvale moved to a sideboard, pouring two glasses of what looked like very expensive brandy. He offered one to Alaric.

"Now then," the Duke said, settling behind his desk. "Let's discuss what this engagement actually means."

Back in the ballroom, Selene watched the men leave with a knowing smile. The moment they were gone, the Duchess turned to her, blue eyes sharp as winter ice.

"Don't think I don't know what you've done," she said quietly, too low for others to hear.

Selene's smile didn't waver. "I've secured an excellent match for both our houses."

"You've trapped my daughter."

Between them, Verelia continued cutting her food with precise movements, as if she couldn't hear them discussing her fate like a business transaction.

"Trapped?" Selene lifted her wine glass. "Or elevated? Your daughter will be connected to one of the oldest bloodlines in the realm."

"Connected to your nephew. Who appeared from nowhere." The Duchess's voice dropped further. "What aren't you telling us about him?"

Verelia finally spoke, still not looking at either woman. "Does it matter? The announcement has been made."

Both older women turned to her, but Verelia's expression remained that perfect, cold mask.

"What matters," she continued, setting down her fork, "is what happens next."

The absence of the Duke and his guest left a subtle shift in the evening's energy. Conversations grew slightly louder, postures more relaxed without the weight of the highest authority present.

Across the room, Caleb Duskwood sat hunched over his wine goblet, the evening's festivities doing nothing to improve his sour mood.

His golden-brown hair hung slightly disheveled, and his blue eyes carried the particular bitterness of someone whose night had gone from bad to worse.

He glanced toward the table where his sister sat with her friends, noting her pale complexion and the way she kept fidgeting with her sleeves.

"Oi." His voice came out rougher than intended.

"What's wrong with you? You look like death."

Her shoulders tightened, barely noticeable, but he caught it. "Nothing."

"Bullshit."

"Caleb, please—"

He clicked his tongue dismissively.

"Whatever."

Standing abruptly, he grabbed a fresh goblet from a passing server and stalked away from their section of the ballroom, toward the cluster of younger nobles near the windows.

The Pemberton sisters stood there in their matching blue gowns.

"Ladies," Caleb approached with what he hoped was a charming smile. "Beautiful evening, isn't it? Though not as beautiful as—"

"Lord Caleb," the elder sister interrupted smoothly, her smile polite but distant. "How nice. If you'll excuse us, we were just about to..." She glanced at her sister. "Find our mother."

"But I thought we could—"

"Another time, perhaps." They were already moving, linking arms as they drifted toward a group of young men from wealthier families.

One of them, some earl's son, immediately offered his arm, and they accepted with bright smiles.

"Tch." Caleb drained half his new glass in one go. "Bitches."

That's when he heard the conversation at the nearby table.

"Where the hell were you, Garrett?" a young voice was asking. "We looked everywhere."

Caleb turned slightly, recognizing Garrett Steelwind's voice as it answered with obvious satisfaction.

"Busy with my new girl," Garrett said, leaning back in his chair with a smug expression.

"Found her sulking in the gardens. Poor thing needed some... comfort."

Someone whistled low. "Oho!"

His other companion leaned in with interest. "Anyone we know?"

"I'm not telling," Garrett said with a theatrical wave of his hand.

"But she was grateful for the attention. Very grateful. Said I was so understanding, so much kinder than she expected."

Caleb found himself listening despite his better judgment, something cold settling in his stomach.

"Come on, give us something," another voice pressed.

Garrett took a drink, clearly enjoying the attention. "A beautiful girl, someone from Lower nobility. Have lovely black hair, bit of the reserved type, you know? The kind that acts all proper but melts when you show them real attention."

At that, the goblet nearly slipped from Caleb's hand.

Baron's daughter. Black hair. Reserved.

His head snapped toward Livia's table, taking in her pale face, her nervous glances, the way she kept pulling at her sleeves, how she flinched when a servant reached past her, how her left hand trembled slightly around her glass.

His free hand slowly clenched into a fist as the implications crashed over him like ice water.

""Fucking bastard," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the ballroom's ambient noise.

"You dare taint a Duskwood."

He threw the glass away and made his way towards the group.

"Garrett."

The name came out flat. Dead. The circle of nobles turned, conversations dying mid-sentence.

Garrett straightened slowly, like a cat stretching.

"Lord Caleb. Can I help you?"

"Stand up." Caleb hissed.

Garrett's companions shifted uncomfortably as the golden-haired young man loomed over their table.

"I'm sorry?" Garrett's voice carried amusement, but his eyes had sharpened.

"I said stand up, you piece of shit."

Now heads were turning.

Garrett rose slowly, his height advantage becoming apparent.

"Careful with that tone, Duskwood. This is a civilized gathering."

"Civilized?" Caleb's laugh was ugly.

"You want to talk about civilized? After what you did to my sister?"

Garrett's expression shifted.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I've barely looked at Lady Livia all evening."

His eyes glittered with something vicious.

"Unless you're suggesting something... happened?"

"You fucking animal—"

"Watch your mouth, Duskwood"

"Make me."

Eyes in the vicinity darted between them.

The weight of their attention, their hunger for scandal, pressed down like a physical thing.

"You know who I'm right?" Garrett's face darkened a little.

"Someone about to get his face rearranged."

"How eloquent."

"I challenge you," Caleb snarled, his voice carrying across the expanding circle of onlookers.

"Right here, right now. For the honor of House Duskwood."

"Gentlemen, please—" someone tried to intervene, but Garrett held up a hand.

His smile returned, sharp and predatory.

"You want satisfaction, Duskwood? Fine." He rolled his shoulders, working out the tension.

"But when I'm done with you, you'll wish you'd kept your mouth shut."

"Big words from someone who preys on defenseless women."

"Defenseless?" Garrett laughed.

"She seemed quite... willing to me." He whispered.

Tables and chairs scraped across marble as servants and nobles alike scrambled to create an arena.

At the high table, heads were turning toward the commotion.

"What's happening over there?" Duchess Evangeline asked, craning her neck.

Selene's eyes found the growing circle, recognizing the familiar stance of men about to try killing each other.

"It appears young Lord Duskwood has found someone to fight."

While near her friends' table, Livia had gone completely white, her hands gripping the edge of her chair hard enough that her knuckles showed through her gloves.

"No," she whispered, the word barely audible. "Caleb, no."

She started to rise, but Eleanor's hand caught her arm.

"Livy, don't—"

"He doesn't understand," Livia said, her voice tight with something between panic and despair.

She watched her brother strip off his formal jacket, saw the familiar arrogant set to his shoulders, the way he postured like victory was assured.

"This is my fault," she breathed.

"First to yield or unconsciousness," the referee called out.

Garrett handed his jacket to someone, loosened his collar.

"Begin."