The Rosenthal name preceded her into every chamber long before she arrived.
It clung to the velvet hem of her gown, to the black pearl combs in her hair, to the faint scent of roses that drifted from her skin. No matter where she went, Evangeline found that she entered rooms already haunted—by expectation, by suspicion, by whispered curses traded behind lace fans and jeweled masks.
Tonight was no different.
The grand ballroom of the Valemont estate glittered with chandeliers, each crystal catching the light of a hundred candles. Gold draped the columns, and silks of crimson and ivory swept across the polished marble floor as nobles danced, their laughter bright and brittle. It was a world meant to dazzle, but to Evangeline, it felt like a stage—and she, the villain cast before the audience.
As she entered, the murmur began.
"Rosenthal.""Poor girl, alone still…""They say her mother went mad in that dreadful manor.""A cursed family. Beautiful, but cursed."
The voices slid like knives beneath her skin. She kept her gaze fixed forward, her expression serene, the mask she had learned to wear long ago. Better to let them call her cold, cruel, untouchable, than to reveal the ache their words left in her chest.
The gown she wore tonight was midnight blue, velvet that shimmered like the surface of still water beneath the moon. A single black rose adorned her bodice, pinned above her heart. Her fortune had bought her beauty beyond compare, but wealth could not buy acceptance.
Evangeline walked as though she were gliding across marble rather than enduring the weight of a hundred stares. Her every movement was calculated elegance, but beneath her composure her fingers trembled, hidden within her gloves.
And then she saw him.
The Duke of Valemont. Aurelius.
He was everything the whispers said: tall and golden, his hair catching the candlelight like strands of sunlight, his smile as bright as the gilded hall itself. When he laughed, the room leaned toward him; when he moved, it was as though the crowd parted of its own accord. Men admired him, women adored him, and even those envious of his power could not deny his radiance.
His gaze found her across the room.
For a moment, Evangeline faltered. No one looked at her like that—not with warmth, not with interest, not as though she were more than the curse she carried. Her heart, long starved of affection, tightened painfully at the sight.
Whispers followed, hissing behind her:"Surely not her.""Even he wouldn't dare.""A golden lord does not touch a rose steeped in blood."
And yet, Aurelius moved toward her.
She watched as he crossed the ballroom with unhurried grace, each step drawing him nearer until the golden light of the chandeliers seemed to follow him. The murmurs grew louder, but he ignored them.
When he reached her, he bowed, his smile gentle, his voice smooth as polished wine.
"Lady Evangeline," he said, his tone laced with reverence, as though her name were not an omen but a treasure. "You honor us all with your presence tonight."
Her lips parted, but no words came at first. She was too accustomed to sharpness, to scorn disguised as courtesy. And yet here stood a man who addressed her as though she were not a cursed relic of a dying line, but a lady deserving of dignity.
"My lord," she managed, her voice soft, composed though her heart raced. "You are kind to say so."
"Kindness has nothing to do with truth," Aurelius replied smoothly. "I had hoped for the chance to speak with you. Might I request the honor of a dance?"
The air shifted. She felt it at once—the subtle prickle across her skin, the change in the rhythm of her breath. It was the presence again, that unseen companion that lingered always near. For the briefest instant, the shadows at the edge of the ballroom seemed to stretch, darkening, though the candles had not dimmed.
As if watching. As if disapproving.
Evangeline's pulse thundered in her ears. She had never been asked so directly, so publicly. To refuse would be to invite mockery. To accept would be to step into a storm of gossip sharper than any blade. And yet…
Her loneliness ached, raw and unbearable. For one moment of warmth, she thought, she could endure the whispers.
"I would be honored," she said.
The words tasted like surrender.
Aurelius's smile widened, radiant, victorious. He took her gloved hand in his and led her to the dance floor, where the crowd parted once more, this time in silence edged with shock. The orchestra swelled, violins sweeping into a waltz as he guided her into the steps.
Evangeline moved as though in a dream. The music carried her, Aurelius's hand firm at her waist, his gaze locked on hers with practiced intensity. For the first time in her life, all eyes were on her not in scorn, but in awe.
And yet, with every turn, every glide across the polished marble, she felt it. The presence. The shadow. It moved with her, unseen but near, an invisible partner whose hold was stronger than any man's.
When Aurelius leaned close, his breath warm against her ear as he murmured praise, she felt the cold brush of air at the back of her neck—chilling, warning, possessive.
Two partners. One golden, dazzling, and seen by all. The other silent, unseen, yet nearer than her own heartbeat.
Evangeline smiled for the crowd, her lips curved in perfect grace. But inside, her heart trembled with a question she dared not speak:
Had she accepted a dance with salvation… or stepped away from the only guardian she had ever known?
The violins swelled, and Aurelius guided her effortlessly across the polished marble. His every movement was smooth, confident, practiced—yet his smile was soft enough to seem genuine, as though this moment belonged to only them.
"You dance beautifully, Lady Evangeline," he murmured, his voice a velvet ribbon in her ear. "As though you were born for the waltz."
Her lips curved into a faint smile, though her throat tightened. Compliments were not unfamiliar to her—they were currency at court, often given as easily as false smiles. Yet when they were spoken by him, under the eyes of a watching crowd, they seemed to carry a dangerous weight.
"I fear I was born only for whispers," she replied lightly, though the words tasted bitter. "Surely you must hear them."
His golden gaze did not falter. "Let them whisper. They are moths gnawing at the edge of a flame. And you, Lady Evangeline, burn too brightly for their shadows to matter."
Her breath caught. She lowered her eyes quickly, hiding the flicker of emotion that threatened to undo her composure. How easily he spoke, as though her name was not chained to ruin.
"You are bold, my lord," she said, her tone softer now.
"I am only honest," he countered smoothly. His hand pressed lightly at her waist as he led her through a turn. "And honesty is rare in these halls. But perhaps that is why I find myself… drawn to you."
Her heart stumbled at his words. Drawn to her. Could it be possible? Could someone look at her and see more than a curse, more than a Rosenthal rose with thorns soaked in blood?
A silence lingered between them as they spun across the ballroom, the world blurring into candlelight and silk. She felt the eyes upon them, heard the murmurs sharp as blades around the edges of the music, yet Aurelius's gaze never left her.
And yet—
A coldness brushed against the nape of her neck, so sudden it made her shiver. She felt it then, stronger than ever, that unseen watchfulness she had known since childhood. Though Aurelius's hand held hers, though the brilliance of the ballroom dazzled her, she could not escape the weight of that presence.
"Are you chilled?" Aurelius asked, his brow creasing slightly.
Evangeline forced a small smile. "Only a draft, perhaps."
"Then I shall keep you warm," he said, his voice low, intimate, as though he alone could shield her from the world.
The words should have comforted her. Instead, she felt the shadows shift at the edge of the ballroom, thickening, pressing close, as if something unseen recoiled from his promise.
She drew in a steady breath, meeting Aurelius's gaze once more. His smile was golden, dazzling, and yet it felt almost too bright, as though she might burn if she stood too close.
Still, her loneliness ached, raw and desperate. And so she let the waltz carry her, let his words wash over her like sunlight after endless winter, even as the shadows clung tighter, whispering without sound: Not him. Not yours.