Page 102 of Bad Prince
I look at myself in the mirror and feel that strange disconnect — like I’m meeting the version of me other people see.
Hair down. Collarbone catching the light. Legs that tell the story of years of work.
“You’re going to ruin someone tonight,” Delia declares.
I swallow.
That’s the problem.
I don’t know who.
The ballroom glows when I arrive.
Not flashy. Intentional.
Candlelight reflecting off glass. White linens. Flowers that smell like clean air and money. Athletes scrubbed of sweat and chaos, suddenly looking like adults with futures.
I pause at the entrance.
Because they’re both there.
Kane first — tux tailored perfectly, shoulders broader somehow, that cocky grin softened by nerves he hides well. Pine and cloves even from across the room.
Then Tristan.
Black tux. Dark hair refusing to behave, that one lock falling over his forehead like it exists purely to undo me. Expensive watch catching candlelight when he adjusts his cuff. Calm in a way that isn’t calm at all.
My stomach flips.
I hate that they can both do that.
They notice me at the same time.
I don’t get three steps into the room before they move.
Not rushed.
Not territorial.
Just inevitable.
Kane reaches me first, hand warm at the small of my back like he’s guiding me through traffic.
Tristan appears on my other side a breath later, fingers brushing my elbow, subtle but unmistakable.
Flanked.
The air shifts.
It’s not dramatic — no gasps, no spectacle — just a low hum that spreads table by table as people register what they’re seeing.
Two tuxedos.
One girl between them.
My pulse jumps.
“This is unnecessary,” I whisper.
