Page 456 of Bad Prince
“When you said this must be what love is like.”
Tears sting behind my eyes so fast it almost embarrasses me.
There, on the sidewalk outside a glittering room full of rules I no longer care about, I nearly lose it over a boy in a tuxedo speaking the exact language my heart didn’t know it was waiting to hear.
He sees the tears gather. His free hand comes up and smooths lightly beneath one eye before anything can fall.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
I laugh shakily.
“Rude.”
His mouth curves. Then he takes my hand and guides me inside before I can turn into a full disaster in public. The ballroom is all chandeliers and candlelight and expensive nostalgia.
Music drifts low and golden under the chatter. Velvet curtains frame the far side of the room. Everything gleams. Everything glitters. Everything smells faintly of perfume, champagne, and expectations.
I feel eyes on us the second we walk in. A few girls glance our way and then look again. Boys do too. Phones lift. Whispers move. Some things never change.
“Royal Oaks Royalty!”
“Cortez and Vale!! OMG! DYING!”
“T&T is so cooked.”
Only this time I don’t feel seventeen and invisible.
Tristan leans close enough that his mouth brushes my temple.
“Still okay?”
I tilt my face toward him.
“Ask me after the first dance.”
His mouth touches the corner of mine in something too brief to count as a kiss and too intimate not to. Then his hand slides to my waist and he steers me not toward the center of the room—but toward the back. Toward the curtains.
My pulse stutters.
The same hidden place—a nook behind the small concert stage. The same shadowed slice of history where everything first went wrong.
He stops there and turns to face me.
No speech.
No theatrics.
Just his hand at my waist, his other lifting mine, and his body moving into mine like we have always known how to do this.
We start to dance.
Slow.
Cheek to cheek.
Forehead to forehead.
Breath to breath.
