Chapter 2: A Ball, A Dress, and a Disaster Waiting to Happen
Elaine was halfway down a marble staircase, dressed like a glitter bomb, when it occurred to her—this ball was happening again.
She had already lived through it once. Technically, she'd lived through it after this. But since she was stuck in a timeline that was moonwalking through events like an overly ambitious rewind button, she was now reattending parties that felt suspiciously familiar.
Which meant—
"Lady Elaine!" someone squealed, grabbing her arm with the force of a toddler on too much sugar. "Come dance!"
Which meant this was the night she would trip on Count Dorien's cape, spill wine on the heroine's gown, and accidentally insult a bishop by calling his staff a "magical stick of doom."
At least, she thought that had already happened. She hadn't realized those incidents were hers until now. At the time, she assumed she was just another anonymous extra in the ballroom crowd. But the way people looked at her now—with careful space, amused smirks, and mild trepidation—it all made sense.
Apparently, she'd been a walking disaster cameo.
"Focus," she muttered to herself. "This time, you will survive the ball with dignity. No projectile beverages. No diplomatic incidents."
A string quartet played something suspiciously dramatic as she stepped onto the dance floor. Her heels were tall. Her dress sparkled like weaponized glitter. Her nerves were doing somersaults.
She turned her head to avoid a couple—and walked directly into someone's chest.
"You again," said a low, amused voice.
Elaine looked up and sighed. "You again."
Lior, in full formal uniform, had the air of a man who expected explosions and carried a metaphorical fire extinguisher at all times.
"You weren't planning to destroy the chandelier again, were you?"
"That was not my fault. Someone bumped me."
"You tackled the butler."
"He spilled soup on my slippers!"
He chuckled. "Well then, shall we dance, Lady Disaster?"
She blinked. "What?"
"I figured if I kept you spinning, you'd have less time to wreak havoc on the innocent."
"I only called the ambassador's toupee a 'feral squirrel' once."
He held out his hand. "Exactly. Let's keep it at once."
To everyone's surprise—including her own—Elaine accepted.
Their dance was shockingly smooth. Mostly because Lior steered her like a seasoned sailor guiding a tipsy boat through stormy seas. He pivoted her away from wine trays, sharp heels, and conversational traps disguised as noblewomen.
"You're not like the other nobles," he said after a while.
"That's because I'm not one," she muttered. "I'm more like a guest star in this story. A blooper reel in heels."
He didn't laugh. He just twirled her and pulled her back in.
"Maybe the story needed bloopers."
Her heart hiccupped. No one had ever said that before—not in this world or the last.
They danced until the music slowed, and she stepped off the floor—directly onto Count Dorien's cape.
He toppled like a startled giraffe.
"Oops," she said.
Lior, already helping him up with the calm of a man used to chaos, just said, "Progress."
Later, she stood alone on the balcony, chewing stolen pastries and avoiding a bishop who still looked mildly cursed. The stars glittered above, unimpressed with her footwork.
Lior appeared beside her like a well-dressed ghost. "Same time next week?"
Elaine smiled into the darkness. "If we're still in the same timeline."
She didn't add: And if I haven't destroyed the palace by then.