“You’re shaking,” Henry observes as we stand in the wings, his voice cutting through the pre-curtain chaos.
“I’m furious,” I snap back, adjusting the blood-red gown that fits like liquid fire against my skin.
“At me?”
“At everyone who thinks they know how this story ends.”
His laugh is dark velvet. “Do you know how it ends?”
Before I can answer, the orchestra strikes the opening chord. The Academy’s elite—nobles, board members, parents who’ve traveled from distant kingdoms—settle into expectant silence. They haven’t come for theater. They’ve come to witness the aftermath of scandal.
“Places!” the stage manager hisses.
Henry catches my wrist as I move toward my entrance. “Helena.”
“What?”
“Don’t hold back tonight.”
“I never do.”
“I know.” His smile is sharp as a blade. “It’s why I chose you.”
The first act blazes past in a blur of familiar lines that taste different on my tongue tonight. When Henry kneels before me in the garden scene, his hand finds mine with possessive certainty.
“My lady,” he says, the scripted words carrying weight they never had in rehearsal. “I would die before I let them harm you.”
“And I would burn the world before I let you,” I reply, the response flowing like prophecy instead of performance.
In the wings, Director Pembroke grips her clipboard so tightly her knuckles have gone white. In the third row, Isadora beams like she’s watching her favorite dream come true. Mirelle sits rigid as carved marble.
“They’re not watching a play anymore,” Henry murmurs as we cross paths behind the scrim. “They’re watching us.”
“Good,” I say. “Let them see exactly what they created.”
The final act arrives like a storm breaking. Henry stands center stage beneath the rose arbor, moonlight streaming across his midnight coat. When he speaks, his voice carries to every corner of the hushed auditorium.
“I choose you,” he declares, the scripted line transformed into something raw and real. “My fallen rose. My ruined salvation.”
The words hit me like physical force. This isn’t the boy who once called me a sea creature. This isn’t the prince performing duty. This is Henry—mine—laying his heart bare for three kingdoms to witness.
I step forward, my red gown rustling like whispered secrets. “Even knowing it damns us both?”
“Especially knowing that.”
He moves closer, close enough that I can see the storm brewing in his dark eyes. The audience holds its collective breath.
“Are you sure?” I whisper, so softly only he can hear.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
I reach up, my fingers curling around the back of his neck, and pull him down to meet me. The kiss explodes between us like lightning striking earth—no hesitation, no gentle build.
The ballroom erupts. Gasps cascade through the watching nobles like dominoes falling. Someone drops their program. A woman in the front row actually clutches her pearls.
But we don’t stop.
My body melts against his, into everything we were never supposed to be. His hands span my waist, anchoring me when the world tilts sideways. The roses fade. The stage disappears. Nothing exists except heat and want and the taste of revolution on his lips.
He pulls back just enough to whisper against my mouth: “You’re not acting.”
“Neither are you.”
“Good.”
And then he kisses me again, deeper this time, like he’s claiming me in front of God and three kingdoms. The crowd’s whispers rise to a roar, but I can’t hear them over the thunder of my own pulse.
The curtain falls like a benediction.
But behind the heavy velvet, Henry doesn’t release me. If anything, he pulls me closer, his forehead pressed against mine as we breathe each other’s air.