The velvet curtains part like the gates of hell, revealing an audience that stretches into shadow—nobility, Academy elite, and the glittering press of three kingdoms. My heart pounds against my ribs as I step into the blazing footlights, but my voice emerges steady, clear, defiant.
“I am beyond redemption,” I declare to the hushed crowd. “A fallen woman who dares to dream of honor.”
The audience leans forward, captivated despite themselves. No one snickers. No one whispers. They listen.
Henry enters like a dark angel, his cape billowing behind him, his presence commanding the stage with regal authority. When our eyes meet across the rose-strewn boards, electricity crackles between us.
“My lady,” he says, his voice carrying to every corner of the theater. “I have come to claim what honor remains.”
We circle each other like predators, every movement charged with the tension we’ve been building for weeks. The scripted words feel different now—raw, dangerous, alive.
“Your oath lies where your ruin begins,” I recite, but my voice trembles with something deeper than acting.
“And yet,” Henry steps closer, his eyes burning into mine, “I find myself willing to embrace that ruin.”
The audience gasps. This line—this wasn’t in our rehearsals.
He reaches for my hand, his fingers closing around mine with shocking gentleness. “I could destroy you with a word,” he whispers, but his voice carries across the silent theater. “Why does that make me want to protect you instead?”
The crowd erupts in murmurs of appreciation, but I barely hear them. My pulse thunders in my ears as Henry’s thumb traces across my knuckles, his touch sending fire through my veins.
“Because,” I breathe, abandoning the script entirely, “destruction and salvation often wear the same face.”
His eyes widen slightly—surprise, perhaps, at my improvisation. But he doesn’t break character.
“Then let us choose which we shall be,” he says, his voice rough with something that sounds dangerously like sincerity.
The scene ends with thunderous applause, but I can’t breathe. I stumble off stage before the curtain call, my legs unsteady, my heart racing like a wild thing.
“Ashbourne!” Henry’s voice cuts through the night air like a blade.
I whirl around in the shadowed colonnade, my stage makeup still smudged, my costume disheveled. “What do you want?”
He stalks toward me, his cape snapping behind him, his eyes blazing with fury. “What the hell was that back there?”
“A performance,” I snap, but my voice shakes. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“That wasn’t performance!” He stops inches from me, his presence overwhelming in the confined space. “That was—”
“What? Real?” I laugh bitterly. “Don’t flatter yourself, Your Highness. I was simply giving the audience what they came to see.”
“You changed the script,” he accuses, his jaw tight with barely controlled anger.
“So did you!” I fire back. “Those lines about protection, about ruin—where did those come from?”
“From the same place as your little speech about destruction and salvation,” he growls. “From whatever this is between us that you’re too cowardly to name.”
The accusation hits like a slap. “There is nothing between us but mutual antipathy!”
“Liar.” The word comes out low, dangerous. “You felt it too. On that stage, in that moment—you felt it.”
“Felt what?” But even as I ask, I know. The electricity that crackled between us, the way the scripted words became something else entirely, the moment when acting became truth.
“This.” He steps closer, backing me against the cold stone wall. “This thing that makes me want to—”
“To what?” I challenge, my chin lifting defiantly. “To humiliate me further? To add me to your collection of ruined girls?”
His face darkens. “Is that what you think of me?”
“I think you’re a prince who’s never met a consequence he couldn’t charm his way out of,” I spit. “I think you destroy things because you can.”
“And what if I told you that you terrify me?” The confession explodes out of him like a gunshot. “What if I told you that every cruel word I’ve spoken was because I can’t bear the way you look at me?”
I stare at him, my breath coming in short gasps. “How do I look at you?”
“Like I’m worth saving.” His voice cracks on the words. “Like I’m more than just another spoiled prince playing at being human.”
“You are human,” I whisper, and hate myself for the gentleness in my voice.
“Am I?” He laughs bitterly. “Then why do I want to destroy everything good that comes near me? Why do I want to break you just to prove that I can?”
“Because it’s easier than admitting you might actually care,” I say, the truth slipping out before I can stop it.
He flinches as if I’ve struck him. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Tell you the truth? That all your cruelty is just fear dressed up in pretty clothes?”
“You don’t know anything about me,” he snarls, but there’s desperation in his voice now.
“I know you improvised those lines tonight because you meant them. I know you hate that you want to protect me. I know you’re fighting yourself every second we’re together.”
“Stop,” he breathes, but he doesn’t move away.
“And I know,” I continue, my voice dropping to a whisper, “that you’re going to kiss me now, and we’re both going to pretend it means nothing.”
For a heartbeat, he goes perfectly still. Then his hand cups my face with devastating tenderness, his thumb brushing across my cheek.
“It means everything,” he whispers against my lips. “That’s the problem.”
But he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he steps back, his hand falling away like a lost benediction.
“Figure out what you want, Ashbourne.”