Chandeliers dripped with candlelight, casting long shadows across the marble floor. The music swelled, a waltz played by a quartet of pale-faced musicians who did not meet each other's eyes.

Below, the line of eligible pureblood daughters stood like porcelain dolls—Pansy Parkinson with her chin raised, Astoria Greengrass with her hands clasped too tightly, Daphne Greengrass gazing ahead as if she had already won. Auriela Selwyn stood slightly apart, her dark hair pinned flawlessly, but her eyes—her eyes were fixed on the tall doors.

Then, without warning, they opened.

You.

You were not looking down. You were not curtseying to the Dark Lord's portrait on the landing. You were looking around. At the silent fear. At the gilded cages. At the way no one truly smiled.

The music seemed to pause. The candles seemed to flicker. And then your gaze found his—across the entire ballroom, past the frozen dancers and the calculating eyes.

You did not flinch.