Her gaze lifted, searching him the way she always did when he teased, hunting for the flicker of mischief in his eyes, that quiet dare to react. But the glint wasn't there. Not this time.
What she found instead was sincerity. A man looking at her, not as an inconvenience, not as a curiosity, not even as a scandal to be toyed with—but simply as someone he meant every word to.
Her lips parted, though no sound came. The compliment was the last thing she had expected from him, and the weight of it lodged beneath her ribs. A flutter stirred low in her chest, stealing the air she needed.
The moment couldn't last. It was too raw, too unguarded to survive here in the open, with half the kingdom watching.
Her cheeks warmed under the lights, and with the smallest tug, she pulled her hand back. Dorian released her without resistance, though his eyes followed her, and when he saw the color that had risen in her face, the corner of his mouth curved. Not with mockery—something softer, as though the faint blush pleased him more than any clever retort ever could.
She dipped her head in a polite bow and stepped back, pulse snagging, her breaths uneven. It wasn't that she believed him—but she couldn't quite shake the weight of his words either.
She wove through the crowd, the sweep of her skirt grazing silk gowns and the stiff edges of ceremonial uniforms. Conversations softened as she passed, threads of speech thinning into pauses before knitting themselves back together in lowered tones. It didn't take long for her to catch fragments—polite on the surface, but all stitched with curiosity that pointed her way.
"Who is she again? She looks so lovely..."
"That gown—it's from Desmarais, isn't it? I saw it on his runway last season."
"Do you think something's going on between them?"
The voices swirled, each one tightening the knot in her stomach. Everyone saw her now, not just as the baker who'd insulted the crown prince, but as something more—something she wasn't sure she wanted to be.
She quickened her steps until she reached the table where Tyler waited. He was seated, his expression carefully arranged into something she couldn't quite read. She forced a small, tight-lipped smile and sank into the chair beside him, hoping her face wasn't as flushed as it felt.
He studied her for a beat too long before asking, "Are you okay?"
"Yes," she answered quickly, then softened it with a smile. "I'm fine. Just a bit hot. I think I need some air."
His brow creased. "You sure you're alright?"
"I am." She touched his hand briefly, reassuring. "I'll only be a moment."
He didn't press further, though the crease in his forehead remained as she rose again, weaving through the room.
Her eyes scanned the hall until she spotted a corner where heavy curtains framed tall glass doors, cracked open just enough to let in the night. She slipped through them, into the cool hush of the balcony.
Relief rushed in with the air. She gripped the stone railing, drawing a slow breath as the night wind combed through her hair. The muffled swell of music and voices dulled behind her, a hazy backdrop instead of a weight pressing down.
For the first time all evening, she felt like she could breathe.
But her chest still carried that stubborn flutter, the echo of words she hadn't expected.
'You look beautiful, Isla Reed.'
They replayed too easily, low and steady, unburdened by the teasing edge she was used to from him. The seriousness in his tone had unsettled her far more than the cameras ever could.
Her cheeks warmed again.
She pressed her palms against the cool stone, willing the breeze to wash it away. This wasn't the place for her thoughts to wander, not when every wall carried ears and every shadow might hold a pair of watching eyes.
With a small shake of her head, she forced her gaze outward—toward the glittering city lights, toward anything that wasn't him. The cool air filled her lungs, steadier this time. She would focus on that. Just the night, the breeze, the moment to herself.
But it didn't last.
Laughter spilled from the doorway behind her, high and easy. Isla turned, and a small group of noblewomen appeared, their gowns glittering as they stepped into the night. When they saw her, their smiles shifted with interest.
"Oh, Miss Reed." One of them approached first, her tone sweet but laced with curiosity. "We were just admiring your gown. Desmarais, isn't it?"
"Umm... it seems so," Isla said, her hand brushing down the skirt, trying not to betray how unsure she was.
"It suits you so well," another chimed in quickly, her voice lilting but her eyes sharp. "And that necklace—the one from the auction? Ten million for a single piece... Surely the prince wasn't serious when he said it was for you?"
"Did he choose your gown, too?" a younger woman asked, eyes sweeping her up and down. "The color is striking—it looks like something he might have picked himself."
"And to think, you've only known him how long?" someone else added. "Tell us, Miss Reed—what does it feel like to dance under every eye in the room? To hold the attention of a prince?"
The circle of voices pressed tighter. Isla forced a polite smile, but each question pulled her further off balance.
"Have you received the necklace yet?"
"Do you believe he truly meant that outrageous bid?"
"Or was it only a gesture—something for the cameras?"
"There must be more between you and the prince than just a dance, surely?"
Their smiles stayed gracious, but their eyes glimmered with calculation. Curiosity dressed as courtesy, each question pressing closer, stacking atop the last until it felt less like conversation and more like interrogation.
Isla's pulse stuttered. She tried to answer lightly, vague enough to slip away, but every half-reply only seemed to feed them more. She opened her mouth to redirect, fumbling for steadier ground—
—and then a familiar voice cut through, smooth as silk.
"Ladies."