The Royce estate ballroom had been empty for hours, but the faint scent of champagne still clung to the air. Gilded chandeliers loomed overhead like silent witnesses to conversations no one should hear.
Ishan Vale slipped inside through the side entrance, the hush of the marble floor under his shoes almost too loud in the silence. Amina had chosen this place for their "private" talk. He doubted it was coincidence — she wanted the echo, the stillness, the illusion that they were alone.
She stood at the far end of the room, back turned, gazing at the tall glass doors that opened to the moonlit terrace. A wine glass dangled loosely between her fingers, crimson liquid catching the light like spilled secrets.
"You came," she said without turning.
"You asked," Ishan replied.
Slowly, she pivoted to face him. Her gown tonight was darker, a deep emerald that drank in the shadows. Against it, her skin seemed almost luminous, her expression unreadable. "Ishan Vale," she began, her voice almost teasing. "The boy who wouldn't scream. The man they say can't be broken. Tell me — is that really true, or just a story you like people to believe?"
He arched a brow. "You didn't bring me here to talk about my reputation."
Her smile didn't falter. "No. I brought you here to talk about trust."
The word slid between them like the unsheathing of a blade. He could feel the weight of it — heavier than a promise, more dangerous than a lie.
"Then say what you mean," he said.
She began walking toward him, the click of her heels measured, deliberate. "If we're going to survive what's coming, I need to know exactly where you stand. Not as a fiancé. Not as a Royce. Not even as Ishan Vale." She stopped just short of him, close enough that he caught the faint trace of lavender again, and something darker beneath it. "I need to know if you can be trusted with my life."
His gaze didn't waver. "Can you be trusted with mine?"
Her lips curved faintly — not a smile, but a warning disguised as one. "That's what we're here to find out."
Before he could answer, she reached into her gown's hidden slit and drew out a small folded card. She pressed it into his hand. The paper was thick, its edges sealed with black wax. No writing. No insignia. Just the weight of something meant for his eyes alone.
"What's this?" he asked.
"An invitation," she said softly. "Tomorrow night. Midnight. Don't be late — and don't bring anyone. If you open it before you arrive, you'll regret it."
There was a glimmer in her eyes now, something between challenge and confession.
He studied her for a long moment. "If I come, what will I find?"
Her answer was barely a whisper. "The first piece of the truth."