Ruben smiled tightly at aristocracy, foreign dignitaries, the odd multi-billionaire of common birth—whoever was put in front of him got the same treatment. His best effort at charm.

It was probably atrocious, considering the mass of nerves this evening had turned him into.

The ballroom was alight, sparkling with jewels and laughter and champagne glasses, gowns swirling a rainbow of colours across the marble dance floor. Ruben floated above the glamour and gaiety as if watching from another place. He kept an eye on Lydia at all times, but his brother stuck to her like a fucking limpet—all smiles and courteousness in public, of course. Ever the benevolent king.

Part of Ruben’s mind was occupied with running over the plan, the contingency plan, the last-ditch emergency fuck-it plan, and the many things things that could go wrong with them all. Hans and Demetria were ready, working behind the scenes to slide everything into place, but he’d failed at his only task.

He hadn’t made Lydia feel safe.

And Goddamnit, where the fuck was Cherry?

He spent another ten minutes working the room, hoping his anxiety came off as some kind of brooding charisma, before she arrived.

And when she arrived, Lord did she arrive.

There was no sudden hush to alert him to her presence, no awed whisperings as the orchestra came to a stop. No; it was a swell in the racket around him that made Ruben turn towards the ballroom’s grand staircase, a sharp spike in the excited voices filling the room.

“Is that her?”

“It must be.”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting that.”

“But she’s quite beautiful, isn’t she?”

Ruben stared up at the figure descending the sweeping staircase. Yes, she fucking was.

Cherry’s hair was piled high atop her head in a riot of curls, a few sweet, coiled strands escaping. Her eyes were wide and dark and her lips were red. Red as they’d been the day he met her. And just as tempting.

She wore a gown of crushed silk that swept low across her cleavage, leaving her shoulders bare, and flared out from her waist like something out of a fairytale. But the gown was as red as her lips. With every step, it flashed in the light, black-cherry here and bright scarlet there, a riot of shades from claret to poppy.

Ruben’s feet carried him through the crowd as if by habit, but he’d never done this, felt this, loved like this, in his whole fucking life. He reached the foot of the staircase and she took the last few steps with a smile on her face, holding out a hand.

He took it, just as he had the day they’d met, bending low to press a kiss to her skin. And when he rose up, she was looking at him as if he were the only person in the room.

Someone had announced her, but he’d barely heard it. Now, he noticed that same voice saying something else about them, the affianced couple—but he didn’t bother to listen. He just followed the sound of the orchestra as it swelled into a waltz.

“Dance with me?” He whispered.

She smiled, her cheeks plumping and her dimples doing funny things to his insides. “If I must,” she murmured.

He grinned, forgetting his worry, forgetting his nerves, and pulled her onto the floor.

“You’re very good at this,” she said, as they settled into the familiar rhythm, his hand a little too tight at her waist. He couldn’t bring himself to let go, though. If he did, she might disappear.

“So are you,” he replied truthfully. “Magda’s doing, I assume?”

“Yep. She’s quite a useful woman. She just has terrible taste.”

He laughed. “Fair enough. At least she listened in the end. You look absolutely stunning.”

She smiled, her eyes sliding away from his. As if she were shy. But Cherry was never shy. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“Thank you. I was ready to fall apart tonight before I saw you.”

She arched a brow. “And now?”

“Now I’m incredibly hard and slightly less nervous.”

“You’re absolutely awful,” she laughed. “I can’t stand you.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that. But you didn’t seem to mind when I—“

“Do not finish that sentence!” Her eyes danced, and her lips tugged up into a reluctant smile. “We’re in public, Ruben.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll have to save my seduction techniques for later.”

“Yes,” she said crisply. “I suppose you will.”

God, he loved this woman.

* * *

Cherry nodded politely at the Archduke of something or other. He was very old, his voice was very reedy, and he was speaking entirely in Danish. But she decided to pretend that he was being utterly charming and completely complimentary. She tended to assume the best of the elderly.

And there was a positive to the language barrier; it allowed her mind to wander freely.

Her eyes followed.

Ruben was just a few metres away, captured in conversation with a couple who looked rather intimidatingly wealthy—diamonds everywhere. Frankly, it was a bit much.

Cherry rubbed a thumb over the diamonds and sapphires decorating her wedding finger. She was never one for jewellery, but she thought she might wear these particular diamonds for a rather long time.

At that moment, Ruben turned his head slightly and met her eye. His serious expression flickered, something light and happy taking over. He’d caught her staring. She’d never hear the end of it. He’d be full of utter rubbish about how infatuated she was. Oddly enough, she couldn’t wait for a point far in the future, past this knife-edge of an evening, when everyone was safe and happy and Ruben had nothing better to do than try his best to make her blush.

She wanted that. She wanted that formless, endless future in her mind, the one where the only certainty was his presence. The rest, she was starting to realise, didn’t really matter.

“Wow,” she said out loud. “I’m… in love.”

The Archduke nodded agreeably and said something in Danish.

“With Ruben,” she told him. “I’m in love with Ruben.”

The Archduke became very excited at the sound of Ruben’s name, and the pace of his Danish increased exponentially.

“I’m sorry,” Cherry said, grasping the old man’s hand. “It’s been lovely talking to you, but I think I need some air.” She bowed her head over his knobbly knuckles, hoping that was clear enough.

It seemed to work; he nodded back, and his Danish slowed down. She caught a single word: prinsesse.

No, she thought as she wound her way through the crowd. She was something greater than that. She was loved.

* * *

Cherry went looking for a private little room to settle in, just for a while. She needed to catch her breath, control her rampaging thoughts, perhaps order some tea. The realisation that she was in love with her fiancée had left her in need of fortification.

But she took one wrong turn, and then another, and the looming shadows of the palace, emptier than usual with all the staff focused on the ball, began to feel like a threat.

Cherry walked very quickly, trying to remind herself that no-one here would hurt her. And that if they did, she had two perfectly good high-heels on her feet, whose stilettos could be shoved up a man’s nose with ease.

Or a woman’s, she thought darkly, her mind settling on Sophronia.

She was almost ready to start tearing scraps of silk from her dress and leaving a trail behind her when she heard… something. Something that sounded promisingly human-like. Cherry followed the sound, hoping to come across a search party armed with a map of the palace and a cake or two. Instead she found what appeared to be a music room, the door slightly ajar, moonlight flooding the instruments scattered within its narrow walls.

Well, narrow for a palace. Pretty decent for anywhere else.

Cherry frowned and held perfectly still, straining to catch the snatch of sound she’d thought she heard. She couldn’t see anyone in here, and after a moment, she decided she could really hear anyone either.

But then the sound came again, softer this time. A sort of subdued, choked sound, small and high-pitched.

Cherry stepped fully into the room and said, “Is someone in here?”

Silence. But her eyes caught on something she’d missed the first time around. Beneath the piano, a huddled little figure sat on the floor, half-hidden in shadow.

She moved closer. “I’m a little bit lost. Do you think you could help me?”

The figure sniffed. It looked up, revealing a familiar pair of wide blue eyes. One of Lydia’s daughters, the eldest. What was her name…?

“Ella,” Cherry finally recalled. “Hello. Do you know who I am?”

The girl sniffed loudly, tossing Cherry a disdainful look. “Of course I do. I am not a child.”

Right. This was the teenage one. Cherry bit back a smile as she moved closer, sinking down to peer beneath the grand piano.

“What are you doing under there, Ella? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“This is my piano,” the child said glumly, her accent thick as syrup. “This is my special room. I come here.”

“Right,” Cherry murmured. “Okay. Fair enough. Well—“

Outside, the clouds shifted slightly, and the moonlight pouring through the windows grew even stronger. Strong enough for Cherry to see the child’s face. And the imprint of a palm against her cheek.

Cherry swallowed down the curse she wanted to spit out and kept her smile in place. “Ella,” she said gently. “What happened to your face?”

The girl turned away. “Nothing,” she sniffed.

“You can tell me,” Cherry said, trying to sound reassuring. Jesus, where was Ruben when you needed him? “I promise you can trust me. I’m engaged to your uncle, and you know you can trust him, right?”

Ella looked back at Cherry, seeming to mull this over. “Uncle Ruben is kind to my mother.”

“That’s because he loves her. He loves all of you. And if someone has hurt you, he’d like to know.”

The girl shook her head. “I am not telling you.”

Before Cherry could reply, she heard the heavy tread of footsteps along the hall outside. Low voices murmured words she couldn’t understand, but they made Ella’s eyes widen, made her huddle deeper into the shadows.

Cherry straightened up and pulled out the plush little seat in front of the piano, angling it just so. When she sat, arranging her huge skirts around her, the space under the piano was hidden completely from view.