The gym doesn’t exist tonight.

Someone skinned it, polished the bones, and dressed it in candlelight. What used to smell like sweat and floor wax now carries the perfume of autumn roses and sugared citrus. The air hums with string-quartet music that keeps trying to turn into a pop beat but never quite does. Lanterns float like captive stars above the crowd, each one flickering gold over a sea of satin.

Cassie walks beside me, her hand grazing mine as if she’s steadying both of us. Her gown pours silver down her body, catching every light like frozen moonwater. When she moves, the beads whisper. Her hair—honey-blonde, slicked into a high tail bound with a jeweled cuff—makes her look taller, older, more untouchable. The scent of her perfume—white amber edged with something bright and citrus—wraps around me and settles the chaos for a heartbeat.

I feel the press of cameras before I see them.

Flashes strobe against the copper garlands; phones rise like mechanical fireflies. I let my expression fall into something poised, the kind of smile that doesn’t show teeth. My gown—black satin, slit high enough to breathe, straps of rose-gold chain—slides cold against my skin every time I shift. The tiny crystals stitched along the hem catch on the light, winking like they know how easily I could ignite them.

The crowd murmurs as we pass. Princess Mira. Princess Cassie. Whispered reverence wrapped in curiosity. I keep my chin level, eyes forward, pretending it doesn’t crawl under my skin. Cassie squeezes my hand once—our secret signal for you’re doing fine—and the knot in my chest eases.

At the far end of the ballroom, a cluster of spotlights blooms.

Bree Halden glides into them like she owns gravity.

She wears ivory chiffon cut so perfectly it barely moves when she does, the hem edged in delicate gold leaf that gleams every time she turns. Her hair is pinned into a chignon so exact it looks sculpted; even the stray baby hairs are disciplined into place. She smiles at the microphone, all white teeth and charity. The crowd quiets as if commanded.

“Welcome, everyone,” she says, and her voice is silk pulled taut. “Tonight we celebrate generosity, unity, and Ravenrest pride.”

Applause bursts instantly—obedient, admiring. Teachers beam. Students swoon. The noise feels manufactured, like canned thunder piped in through hidden speakers. Bree’s hands rest precisely on the podium, not a tremor, not a twitch. When she gestures, it’s measured down to the millisecond.

Cassie leans close, breath warm against my ear. “She’s been rehearsing that speech since she could talk.”

Behind us, Kess murmurs, voice low and amused. “Rehearsing implies humanity. Watch the micro-delays—half-second lag before each blink. She’s buffering.”

I do watch.

And Kess is right. Every move Bree makes lands a fraction too late, a frame out of sync with reality. Even her laughter when the crowd claps again—polite, bell-clear, hollow—feels edited.

The air is too warm; the light too sharp. My pulse drums against my ribs. I reach for the fine chain at my throat and press it between my fingers, grounding on the cool metal. Cassie notices, slides her hand along my spine in a barely visible motion that says breathe.

Across the room, Kael hovers a half-step behind us in a midnight jumpsuit, scanning sightlines with that quiet, predatory calm. Beside her, Rori looks nothing like the warrior she used to be—soft wine-colored tulle, ribbon straps, cheeks flushed with nervous energy. Michael Sandalwood says something to her—gentle, earnest—and the peppermint-clean of his breath reaches even me. Rori laughs—actually laughs—and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before realizing what she’s done. The blush deepens until it matches her dress.

Cassie follows my gaze and smiles, pride brightening her whole face. “She’s starting to settle into it. Look at her—just a girl at a dance.”

The warmth that line puts in my chest is its own kind of crown. “And still the best guard in the room,” I murmur.

Kael hears us and, without breaking her sweep of the crowd, lets a wry note slip into her voice. “Let them have the dance. The donors can foot the bill. Half this room is tax write-offs in shoes.”

I huff a laugh; it lands softer this time. The music swells again, violins melting into electronic percussion, and for a moment the noise becomes something gentle, almost safe.

Then Bree turns her head, and her gaze finds me through the haze of light.

Her smile doesn’t falter, but the reflection in her eyes catches wrong—flat gold, no spark, no soul. For a heartbeat, there’s nothing behind it. Then she blinks, and everything resets.

My stomach twists.

Perfection shouldn’t look that empty.

Cassie’s voice threads into the space between us, calm and steady. “See it?”

“Yeah.” My whisper barely moves the air. “Perfect’s starting to look a little broken.”

Bree’s speech fades into applause that feels endless. At last the music shifts—violins giving way to bass and drums. The first slow rhythm ripples out, soft but commanding. Students start pairing off, bodies moving like moths drawn toward the warm center of light.

Cassie turns to me, one brow lifting. “Do we pretend to mingle, or start our scandal early?”

I smirk. “Scandal, obviously.”

Her hand finds mine, cool fingers curling with deliberate care, and we walk onto the floor together. The chatter swells; I feel eyes snag on us like hooks. Whispers ripple through the crowd—princesses, together, again—but I don’t care. Cassie pulls me close, one hand resting at my waist, and for a moment the rest of the ballroom just…blurs.

The music slows.

Her perfume is winter sun and silver citrus; my heartbeat stutters in time with the melody. I rest my head against her shoulder. She hums softly—off-key, perfect anyway. Somewhere, someone actually cheers. Someone else mutters about time. I let myself laugh, quiet and genuine, because it feels like claiming something that was already ours.

Naomi and Kess slide past us in a half-spin, both wearing the smug grin of people who know exactly how many heads they’re turning. Kess twirls Naomi once, catches her hand, and kisses her knuckles mid-spin; the room all but sighs. Naomi rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, and even the teachers can’t seem to mind.

Kael ends up cornered by one of the donors’ sons and takes the dance like a mission detail—posture perfect, expression neutral. Still, I catch the faintest ghost of a smile at the edge of her mouth when he thanks her afterward.

Then there’s Rori.

She’s surrounded before she even finishes her mocktail—three, four boys all asking at once. The flush climbs fast up her neck. She waves them off with a stammered “on duty,” but they don’t listen until Kael’s glare clears a two-meter radius around her. Rori breathes out a curse and tries to hide behind the punch bowl.

And then Michael Sandalwood appears—pressed charcoal suit, polite bow, peppermint gum scent clean against the sugar in the air. “Would you honor me with one dance, Miss Rori?” he asks like it’s a line from a storybook.

Rori blinks, half ready to decline. Then something in his voice—steady, kind—makes her pause. She glances our way. I raise my glass in silent encouragement. Cassie grins like a proud sister. With a nervous laugh, Rori sets her cup down and nods. “One dance.”

It’s awkward at first. She steps on his shoe, apologizes, mutters something that makes him laugh. Then she relaxes. Her posture eases, the tension melts, and by the third rotation she’s smiling—unguarded, radiant. The sight lodges behind my ribs, warm and a little painful. I don’t say a word, but I file it away.

Not far from the stage doors, the main entrance opens again. A flash of copper silk catches my eye. My brother, Lucien, steps inside looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, tugging at the collar of a borrowed suit. Beside him, Alina Merrick adjusts the knot of his tie with quiet precision. Her laughter softens the sharpness in his shoulders; his ears go pink. It’s so heartbreakingly normal I almost forget where we are.

Cassie follows my gaze and smiles faintly. “You set them up well, Firefly.”

“I know,” I whisper back, watching Lucien murmur something that makes Alina laugh again. “For once, I think I actually did something right.”

The lights dim further, the song shifting into a new, glittering rhythm.

That’s when Nate Ashborne appears — the kind of boy who walks like the room’s already applauding. His tux fits too perfectly, his grin too easy. “Evening, Princesses,” he says, hand extended toward Cassie and me like he’s doing us a favor. “How about one dance? Promise I’ll behave.”

Cassie smiles — the cool, diplomatic one she uses when she’s two seconds from telling someone off. “Thank you, Nate, but we’re good.”

He laughs, the sound too loud for the space. “Oh, come on. Just one spin around the floor? It’s for charity, isn’t it?”

Something in his tone scrapes wrong. It’s teasing, but there’s an undercurrent — something performative, a dare threaded through the words. I try to keep my voice polite. “We only dance with each other tonight. I’m sure plenty of others would love to.”

That should be the end of it.

But Nate’s grin sharpens. “Guess I didn’t realize generosity had such strict rules.”

The line lands with that perfect blend of wounded and smug. People nearby laugh — quick, uncertain.

Cassie exhales softly beside me, the sound just for me, and I know she’s thinking ignore it. But the heat in my chest spikes before I can swallow it down.

“You might raise more for charity,” I say evenly, “if you stopped worrying about who’s dancing with who.”

He blinks, taken aback for half a heartbeat, and then forces another laugh. “Didn’t think royalty came with PR training.”

Cassie’s fingers tighten around mine, warning me off before I can answer.

“Have a good night, Nate,” she says lightly, and steers me away.

The music swells again, too loud, too bright. I can still feel the looks on my back — amusement, surprise, maybe even a little satisfaction. Cassie squeezes my hand once, grounding, steady, and we blend back into the swirl of lights and color.

We’re halfway to the refreshment table when the crowd parts like someone gave the word.

Bree Halden stands waiting, framed by the glow of hanging lanterns and a chorus of adoring glances. Her ivory gown gleams under the lights, gold leaf catching like fire when she turns. She looks flawless—too flawless—and the smile she aims at us could sell salvation.

“Princesses,” she says, voice bright enough to reach every corner of the room. “I’m so glad you made it. I do hope you’re enjoying the gala. Everyone’s welcome here, after all.”

It’s pitched perfectly—warm, inclusive, impossible to challenge without sounding cruel.

Cassie meets her tone with equal polish. “Of course. It’s a lovely event, Bree. You’ve done well.”

Bree’s lashes lower. “We do what we can for the school. I just think it’s wonderful that even those with… larger platforms are willing to support local causes.”

The words are sugar-laced poison. My throat tightens before I can decide whether to respond. Cassie’s hand brushes mine—don’t bite—and I force my expression into neutrality.

“That’s what charity’s for,” Cassie says smoothly. “All of us contributing what we can.”

Bree’s smile doesn’t shift, but her eyes do. They sharpen, glittering with that subtle mean-girl hunger for the upper hand. She steps closer, too close, and the silk of her gown grazes Cassie’s.

“Oh, I completely agree,” she says sweetly. “It’s all about grace under pressure, isn’t it?”

She pivots as if to move past—and “stumbles.”

The motion is elegant, deliberate. Her glass tips just far enough that a single bead of champagne leaps free, landing near Cassie’s hip. No spill. No stain. Just the idea of one.

“Oh!” Bree gasps, hand to her mouth, smile still perfect. “I’m so terribly sorry—are you all right?”

Cassie steps back an inch, every line of her posture composed. “I’m fine.”

“It’s fine,” I echo, my voice a little too flat.

The nearby chatter ripples—polite laughter, sympathetic coos. For a second, I can feel the narrative writing itself around us: the gracious hostess, the aloof princesses. It prickles under my skin, wrong but intangible.

Bree touches Cassie’s arm, light as air. “You’re sure? I’d hate for there to be… misunderstandings.”

Cassie’s smile sharpens by half a degree. “Crystal clear.”

The two of them hold that eye contact a moment too long. When Bree finally steps away, she does it with a flutter of gold chiffon and a halo of approval from the onlookers.

Cassie exhales slowly, her knuckles whitening around the stem of her untouched drink.

“That,” she mutters, “was theater.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And we were cast without being told.”

Across the room, Naomi leans toward Kess, her voice low and certain.

“Locker time.”

Kess nods once. “On it.”

They slip into the hall like ghosts, leaving Cassie and me beneath the glow of the lanterns, still catching our breath in a room that suddenly feels a little too curated, a little too bright.

“Don’t let him get to you,” she murmurs against my hair.

“I’m not,” I lie. My voice sounds even, but something in my stomach twists anyway.

Naomi and Kess slip back through the crowd just as the music shifts again—something slower, sweeter, too calculated to feel genuine. Both of them look like they’ve just come from a crime scene.

Kess leans close enough that only we can hear. “Her locker hums.”

Naomi’s expression is grim. “Not human tech. Veil-aligned residue. She’s carrying something.”

The words lodge under my ribs. The shimmer I saw in the hallway weeks ago—the way Bree’s outline glitched under the fluorescent light—wasn’t in my head. Pair that with her too-smooth movements, the mechanical precision of her smile, and the pieces start to click.

Before I can ask what kind of residue, the DJ’s lights flare gold. A hush ripples across the ballroom as Bree Halden and Nate Ashborne step into the open space at the center of the floor.

The crowd parts for them, eager, admiring.

Nate’s tux gleams; Bree’s ivory gown catches every flicker of the hanging lanterns until she looks carved out of light. Their hands find each other with textbook ease. The first notes of the slow song start—strings and soft percussion, syrup-sweet.

They dance like they’ve practiced it. Every turn, every tilt of her chin, perfect. Too perfect.

Then Nate leans in, murmurs something that makes her laugh, and they kiss.

Applause breaks over the room—sharp and sudden. Teachers beam. Students cheer. The air fills with perfume and heat and the heady rush of celebration. For everyone else, it’s a picture-perfect moment.

But standing there beside Cassie, it just feels wrong.

Bree’s scent—rose powder and sugar varnish—mixes with Nate’s lemon-bright cologne and the wax of melting candles until the combination turns cloying. The lights feel hotter, heavier. The music starts to slow and stretch, syrup in my ears.

Cassie’s fingers find mine. Her skin is cool, grounding, but the unease won’t leave.

Bree’s eyes meet mine over Nate’s shoulder for a single, unblinking heartbeat. There’s nothing human in that gaze. Just reflection—like glass held up to the sun.

The song fades. Applause swells again. Somewhere nearby, champagne glasses clink.

But all I can think is that perfection isn’t a mask.

It’s a script.