The ballroom was still alive with whispers, laughter, and flickers of curiosity — but for Gianna Veymont, the world had stopped moving.
The floor beneath her heels felt like quicksand.The walls spun.Her throat burned with betrayal.
People watched her, but no one came close. Except him.
Tristan Greystorm stood across the room — the boy with the post, the smirk, and now... the hesitation.
His friends were talking, but he didn't hear a word.His eyes were on her.
She walked straight toward him, her emerald gown trailing like a wave behind her. Her gaze didn't waver.
SLAP.
The sound echoed across the marble floor like a gunshot.
Conversations died mid-sentence.Someone gasped.Someone whispered, "She just—"
She didn't wait.
"Next time," Gianna said, her voice shaking but firm, "make sure the truth isn't served colder than your ego."
She turned, fighting the sting in her eyes, and walked out. Not fast. Not running. But with the kind of elegance only heartbreak gives.
Tristan didn't flinch. But he didn't move either.
His cheek tingled, but it wasn't the pain that caught him off guard.It was her eyes.Red. Swollen. Broken.
He'd seen her angry, smug, prideful, merciless.But never like this.
Never fragile.
His mind spun to years ago — a memory buried somewhere in their shared childhood.
They were maybe eight.At a charity gala.She'd spilled orange juice on his white tux jacket.He'd called her "sticky syrup girl" for weeks.She hadn't cried then.
No.She had stood on stage the next day and purposely knocked his award off the table with a smile and a bow.They had been at war since.
Always fighting. Always equal.But now? She looked… shattered.
And he hated it.
Gianna stepped out into the cool night air, gasping for breath. Her lungs ached from holding it in too long.
"Gianna?"
She looked up.
There he was — Emrys Greystorm, the soft-spoken cousin with his ever-present book tucked under one arm, glasses sliding down his nose. He always looked like he belonged in a library, not a royal dynasty.
"I saw what happened," he said gently. "I didn't… I didn't want to intrude."
Her lips trembled. "You're not. I just— I needed air."
He nodded, stepping closer. "You didn't deserve that."
"I guess none of us deserve betrayal," she whispered.
For a second, he didn't speak. Then slowly, Emrys placed his blazer over her bare shoulders.
"I think you're stronger than any of them know. Even him."
Gianna looked up at him. For once, not guarded. Not defensive. Just… tired.
"You're sweet, Erin," she whispered, using the childhood nickname she once gave him. "Maybe the only real one among them."
He didn't respond. But the way he looked at her said everything.
Across the garden, hidden by the shadow of the corridor arch, Tristan stood still, watching the scene unfold.
He hadn't meant to follow her.
He just… did.
He saw Emrys step closer.Saw Gianna tuck the coat tighter around herself.Saw the way she looked up at him like he was her lifeline.
And something burned inside him.
Jealousy?
He turned and left before the bitterness in his chest betrayed him any further.
That night, Tristan couldn't sleep.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The moonlight filtered through his window, taunting him.
Why did she cry?Why did it bother him so much?Why did she look like she'd been punched in the soul?
And why the hell was she with Emrys?
He groaned and buried his face in the pillow.
"This is stupid," he muttered to himself. "She's the enemy. The Veymont heir. The one I was raised to hate."
But the memory of her tear-stained face wouldn't leave him alone.
Not that night.
Not ever again.
Meanwhile, back at the Greystorm estate, a thick envelope slipped beneath a locked study door.No name.No seal.Just a single line written on the back in sharp, bold ink:
"You've been looking in the wrong direction all along."
To be continued...