Although it was her first time dancing with Raphael, there was an unexpected ease between them. Their movements weren’t perfectly in sync, but they weren’t clumsy either – at least their steps didn’t falter so much as to ruin the dance. 

As the ball grew livelier, the music swelling and laughter filling the air, Rosalyn found herself caught up in the moment. 

Her engagement had never been her choice, but somehow it felt easy to let herself be carried away. Marriage, too, would probably be just another step on this predetermined path. And for a brief moment she wondered – perhaps she could learn to love this life. 

But the thought, fleeting as it was, vanished just as quickly. 

For that night, at her debutante ball, Rosalyn danced her first and only waltz. It was both the beginning and the end of something she would never have again.

After the ball, the former Emperor’s health steadily declined, and the Duke of Delmart wasted no time in exploiting the instability of the throne to expand his influence. 

But Raphael was not like his father. 

As Crown Prince, he had spent years watching the Duke’s unbridled ambition and self-serving indulgence. It was only natural that he felt nothing but contempt for the Delmart family. Unlike the late Emperor, Raphael did not tolerate the Duke’s arrogance – nor did he hesitate to challenge it. 

As a result, the already fragile relationship between the Dukedom and the Imperial family rapidly crumbled. 

By the time of the Christmas Ball, tensions between the two factions had reached breaking point. The air in the palace was thick with unspoken hostility, every glance and gesture carrying the weight of a battle neither side was prepared to lose.

The Christmas Ball was the most lavish of all the festivities held at the imperial palace. As tradition dictated, the evening began with the first dance, which had to be shared with a chosen partner. 

After her debut, Raphael had kept his distance, but at that first Christmas ball, he did more than simply ignore her. 

Rosalyn had never once considered the possibility that her own fiancé would go so far as to *avoid* her. Whatever grudge he might have held against her, she had never imagined he would openly humiliate her – not like this, not in front of the entire court. 

But as she stood there, waiting, as the music began and the eyes of the nobles turned to her in silent whispers, she realised the bitter truth. 

Raphael had chosen to make his feelings known in the cruelest way possible.

Despite everything, Raphael did not say a word to Rosalyn – not even a passing glance – until the first song had ended. And in that heavy silence, a terrible realisation crept into her mind. 

As the music swelled once more, the women who had been standing beside her, eagerly awaiting their invitations, were whisked out onto the dance floor one by one. In moments, the grand ballroom was transformed into a sea of swirling gowns and graceful steps. 

But Rosalyn remained where she was – alone. 

Stranded in the awkward space between the edges of the hall and the vibrant centre, she stood frozen, her gloved hands clasped lightly together as if clinging to the last vestiges of dignity. 

She was not invisible. The men who had once taken an interest in her, who had sought her favour in the past, stole hesitant glances in her direction. But none of them stepped forward. 

None of them dared. 

Even those with the boldest ambitions knew better than to violate the unspoken rules of the court – to risk angering the Crown Prince by reaching out to his fiancée, whom he had so clearly cast aside.

But that was not all. 

As the next song began and Raphael still did not move, the nobles gathered at the edge of the hall began to murmur, their whispers barely concealed by fluttering fans and knowing glances. 

Some questioned the Crown Prince’s behaviour. Others quietly expressed sympathy for Rosalyn. 

But to them, it was all the same. 

Whatever their intentions, every hushed conversation, every sidelong glance felt like mockery.

“Look at her.”

“The fiancée standing alone.” 

Her throat tightened, the weight of humiliation pressing down on her chest. 

“Lady Delmart.” 

A voice cut through the noise, calm and collected. 

Rosalyn blinked, turning her head blankly towards the speaker. And there he stood – the noble knight of the Emperor. 

Johannes Moore. 

“I will prepare the carriage to return to the castle.”

Rosalyn stared at him, her expression blank, before a hollow laugh escaped her lips. 

Moments ago, this man had stood beside Raphael, and now he was here – offering words that felt less like a suggestion and more like an order she had no choice but to obey. 

In retrospect, perhaps it had been a gesture of consideration, a quiet attempt to spare her the humiliation of standing alone, surrounded by watchful eyes. But at that moment, Rosalyn’s mind was too clouded to comprehend such intentions. 

All she felt was shame. A deep, burning shame that seeped into her bones. 

“His Highness does not seem to enjoy dancing.” 

But to be told to return to the castle – what then? 

If she left now, would her father leave her alone? Or would it just be another stain on her already crumbling dignity?

It was as if she could hear the piercing, echoing screams in her ears even though they hadn’t come yet. A cold sweat ran down her back. 

‘I’m fine.”

Johannes didn’t press her further. He simply accepted her answer and returned to Raphael’s side, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared. But the weight of the moment remained – for the stares didn’t fade. 

They only grew heavier. 

Murmurs, soft but cutting, swirled around her. She could even hear the disapproving click of tongues, the subtle sounds of people shaking their heads at her disgrace. 

For the first time in her life, a deep, searing shame settled in her chest. It was different from the quiet humiliations she had endured before. This – this was public. This was raw. 

Her fingers began to tremble. 

Then a faint sound reached her ears – laughter. 

She turned and there, leaning comfortably with his arm around the shoulders of an unfamiliar woman, was Vincent. 

He was grinning. Watching her. 

As if he had been waiting for this moment. 

Rosalyn’s chin quivered, but she clenched her jaw tightly, as if that alone could stop the cracks from deepening.

Instead of offering his sister the slightest assistance, Vincent simply watched, his amusement evident – like a man watching a fire from across the river, detached and untroubled. 

His indifference did not go unnoticed. The surrounding ladies shot him disdainful glances, their eyes filled with silent condemnation. 

But their contempt for Vincent didn’t change Rosalyn’s reality. She remained alone, standing apart from the rest of the young nobles who twirled and laughed together, caught up in the warmth of the lively ball. 

Perhaps it was pity that moved him – one of the men stepped forward, approaching her with quiet hesitation. 

“Lady Delmart, it seems His Highness is engaged this evening. How about waiting in the reception room instead?”

Rosalyn’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. 

She should have spoken – should have offered a polite refusal, should have reassured the man with a calm smile and told him she was fine. That she appreciated his concern, but did not need an escort. 

But the weight of her humiliation sat heavy in her throat, thick and suffocating, and silenced her. 

Her dignity had already been trampled, her shame exposed for all to see. 

She was determined to stay where she was, to face the night without retreating. But despite her determination, the thought of leaving – of escaping this suffocating scene – crept into her mind, relentless and inescapable. 

Meanwhile, Vincent, after muttering something to the woman next to him, left the Great Hall without so much as a glance in Rosalyn’s direction.

The once beautiful melody now grated on her nerves, each note tightening the vice around her chest. The longer she endured it, the harder it was to breathe. 

Pressing a hand to her chest, she lifted her eyes to find Raphael. 

He was aware that she could see him. Yet he made no effort to acknowledge her. Instead, he sipped at his wine as if she didn’t exist. 

The sight sent a cold, piercing sensation through her, but before she could process it, her eyes met someone else’s. 

Johannes. 

He was standing next to Raphael, watching her with those unreadable eyes of his. And something about that moment – the unbearable weight of it – snapped whatever fragile thread was holding her in place. 

Like a racehorse hearing the signal, she turned on her heel and hurried out of the Great Hall. 

Whispers trailed after her, brushing against her back like ghostly fingers. 

Her pulse pounded, her breath came in uneven gasps. 

Even when she stepped into the quiet corridor, away from the suffocating stares, she didn’t stop. 

She couldn’t. 

Her steps quickened, almost breaking into a run, as if she could outrun the crushing shame that followed her through the empty corridors.

Her pulse pounded wildly, her breathing ragged with each step. Even after leaving the stifling atmosphere of the hall and entering the quiet corridor, she didn’t slow down – she couldn’t. 

The silence around her was deafening, broken only by the ragged sound of her own breathing. 

The stares. The whispers. The murmurs of sympathy. 

It was all unbearable. 

Maybe there was a better way to handle this. Maybe she should have stayed, taken it with her head held high. 

But at that moment, Rosalyn had reached her limit. There was no room for reason, no time to think of alternatives. She had to go. 

In her hasty flight, her high heeled foot suddenly slipped on the smooth marble floor. 

Her balance shifted, the world tilted. 

And then, before she could fall, a firm hand gripped her arm. 

The unexpected touch snapped her out of her daze. 

Struggling to steady herself, she turned her head, her breathing still erratic – 

And froze.

“Princess.”

Rosalyn stared at Johannes, her breathing still uneven, her expression momentarily stunned. Then, slowly, her eyes fell to her arm – where his firm grip held her in place. 

Only then did her mind fully return to her, the haze of panic lifting just enough to reveal a different kind of fear. 

‘How must she look to him now?’

Dishevelled, shaken, running blindly through the halls like a fool. 

The thought sent a sharp sting through her pride. 

“Let me go.” 

Her voice was calm, her tone firm, but he didn’t move. He didn’t step back. 

“If you’re returning to the castle, let me escort you to where the carriage is.” 

His words were the same as before, spoken with the same calm detachment. 

Rosalyn exhaled – a short, calm breath. 

Just like that, the fire that had been raging inside her flickered out. It left nothing behind. Nothing but cold, weightless ash. 

When she finally spoke again, her voice was softer, more subdued. 

“I’m not planning on coming back just yet, so you may leave now.” 

There was no defiance in it, no resistance – just quiet exhaustion. 

Johannes looked at her for a moment before answering, his voice as calm as ever. 

“Let’s not do anything that will only tire us both.”

There was a warning in Rosalyn’s voice as she met Johannes’ gaze with an unreadable expression. 

What he said was perfectly reasonable. 

After such a public humiliation, lingering in the Imperial Palace in this state would do her no favours. There was no point in wandering aimlessly, no dignity to be salvaged by prolonging the inevitable. 

And yet… 

There was no place she could go back to. 

Not here. Not at Delmart Castle. Nowhere. 

Perhaps that was why, even though she knew Johannes had no intention of mocking her, something inside her twisted at his words. A bitter, spiteful impulse took root, and before she could stop herself, the words slipped out – 

“If you really feel sorry for me, will you dance with me?” 

It was sharp, laced with sarcasm. More of a taunt than a request. 

The regret hit her immediately. She bit her lower lip and cursed her own thoughtlessness. 

But Johannes had already lifted his gaze, his piercing blue eyes locked with hers. 

“Is that what you’re hoping for?” 

His voice was unreadable, calm yet pointed, as if he could see right through her.

Rosalyn’s words had been laced with mockery, but Johannes’ response contained no hint of emotion. His tone was calm, impassive – purely professional, as if her sarcasm hadn’t even touched him. 

If he had said, “Yes, I wish,” would that have meant they would have clasped hands and waltzed away as if nothing had happened? 

The thought was absurd. 

She swallowed dryly and pushed it away. 

The sharp sting of humiliation she had felt moments ago faded, replaced by something far more familiar – self-disgust. 

She was lashing out. She knew it. Johannes had done nothing to deserve it. 

Without another word, she turned and walked away. 

She didn’t look back, nor did she expect him to stop her. 

And yet, as she moved through the dimly lit corridor, the warmth of his hand on her arm still lingered, like a ghost of something she couldn’t quite shake.

Rosalyn walked quickly, her steps purposeful – but not towards the waiting carriage. 

Returning to Delmart Castle before the ball was over would be just as disastrous as staying. Leaving too soon would only provoke her father’s wrath. And with Vincent lurking nearby, she had no doubt that he would eagerly report everything that had happened. 

She had no safe way out. 

As she stepped outside, the cold hit her immediately. A sharp gust of wind cut through the thin fabric of her robe and she instinctively wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. 

The logical thing to do was to retrieve the shawl from the carriage – it would at least provide some warmth. 

But that meant facing the maids and the coachman. 

It meant acknowledging the situation, enduring their knowing looks, their quiet concern – or worse, their silent judgement. 

And right now she couldn’t even bear that.

Rosalyn did not want the servants to see her in this state. It wasn’t just a matter of pride – she knew exactly where their loyalties lay. Like Vincent, they would report everything they saw to her father. 

They were the Duke’s eyes and ears. 

And so, rather than risk their scrutiny, she turned away from the path leading to the carriage and made her way to an outdoor terrace, far enough from the heart of the ball that no one would think to look for her there. 

The night air was cold, biting against her exposed skin, but the solitude was worth it. 

She would stay here for a while – just long enough to collect herself. 

And when the ball was over and the other guests began to leave, she would slip away unnoticed and return to the carriage.