"But," Rupert added with a teasing smile, "before we can officially announce you to the Crown, there's one more tradition."

The crowd leaned in as Rupert continued. "You must dance."

I blinked. Dance? Of course, it was a royal ball, but I had barely prepared for this.

He grinned. "Any of you who would like to join our reporters and students, please step forward and find your partners, let's show them how to dance."

I glanced around, waiting for someone to approach. Suddenly, Frederick emerged from the crowd, that familiar smirk blazing across his face.

I shook my head slightly at his teasing confidence, but before I could refuse, he reached out his hand toward me.

Well, at least I am dancing with someone I actually know not just someone random.

Just as I was about to take it, another figure stepped smoothly between us, taking the place of my pair and partner for this dance.

Maxwell.

His presence sliced through the room like a sharp blade—cool, commanding, and completely unexpected.

I caught Frederick's face twist in confusion, but then a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. "Go ahead, cousin," he said, lowering his head with a nod, silently conceding to Maxwell's claim.

Maxwell ignored Frederick as if he weren't even standing there just moments before. His piercing baby-blue eyes locked onto mine, and in a low, steady voice he asked, "Shall we dance?"

Time seemed to slow. Every eye in the room shifted toward us. Frederick stepped back silently, and the first murmurs began to ripple through the crowd.

My heart hammered wildly, and for a moment I hesitated. But backing down from a man with his title, here in front of everyone? Not an option.

Slowly, deliberately, I placed my hand in his.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

And just like that, the night's real dance began.

"What are you doing?" I whispered, as we bowed to each other in perfect harmony, beginning the waltz with flawless synchronization.

He glanced at me, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "I'm about to dance the waltz. You?"

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my racing heart as the music swelled around us—soft strings and lilting melodies filling the grand ballroom. "I... I'm about to survive it," I muttered, half-joking, half-serious.

Maxwell's smirk deepened, but his grip on my hand was firm and confident, grounding me. "Good. Because this isn't just any dance. It's a test."

I blinked, caught off guard. "A test?"

He nodded, stepping smoothly in time with the music. "The court watches closely. How you move, how you respond—it all tells a story. They want to see grace, strength, control. Everything a future royal correspondent should embody."

As we circled the floor, I felt the stares from every corner of the room—the glittering elite, the aristocrats, the press—all silently judging, measuring me.

But strangely, with Maxwell leading, I felt less like prey and more like a contender.

The rhythm sank into my bones, each step falling in time with the soft swell of strings around us. The rest of the ballroom faded—the voices, the stares, even the golden glow of chandeliers overhead—until all I could feel was the press of Maxwell's hand in mine, steady and warm. It was too natural, too easy, dancing with him. Which made me suspicious.

So I spoke.

"I thought you hated me," I murmured, not quite looking at him. "Why are you dancing with me?"

He didn't hesitate. "What's your business with my cousin?"

Ah. There it was.

I gave a tight, tired laugh. "So this is an interrogation disguised as a waltz. How charming."

"Will you answer me or not?"

"I wrote an essay. That's all. And somehow it turned into a threat."

Maxwell's grip tightened slightly. "Your essay's not the threat. It's the subject of it—and what people think you're trying to do with him."

"You mean Frederick refusing to act like a saint while the press paints him as the devil?" I raised a brow. "Yeah, I've heard the rumors."

"Well then, for your knowledge," I added pointedly, "I didn't pay him. I didn't flirt with him. I didn't do anything but ask questions. So whatever fantasy you've cooked up in that suspicious little brain of yours? You can toss it out."

"And I'm the one with bad humor," he muttered under his breath.

I sighed, my voice soft but tired. "Look, I get it. You don't like me. That's fine. Honestly, I don't blame you. Most days, I'm not exactly my biggest fan either. But could you maybe do your judging from a distance?"

To my surprise, he let out a small laugh—short and quiet. "You don't like yourself."

"Everyone has their reasons," I said simply. "I told you. We all have a dark past."

He gave me a sidelong glance. "That just sounded incredibly fake."

"Of course it did," I snapped. "Because you've already decided who I am. Doesn't matter what I say. You've got the whole picture drawn in your head, don't you?"

"I know people like you," he said, his voice suddenly low and firm. "Too well."

"Then maybe you should've stayed back against the wall where you clearly prefer to be," I muttered.

He didn't flinch. "My mother raised me to be a gentleman."

That made me laugh, actually laugh. "Oh? How's that going for you?"

He didn't answer with words. Just placed a firm hand on the small of my back and dipped me low, the room spinning in candlelit blur above me. "Surprisingly well," he said with the ghost of a grin as he pulled me back up into his arms.

In the corner of my eye, I saw Frederick watching us, his expression unreadable now—less teasing, more... thoughtful.

Maxwell leaned in slightly, voice barely above a whisper. "You're putting on a show."

"So are you," I shot back. "Bet you're used to it."

He turned me effortlessly into the next step, his touch never faltering. His eyes, icy blue and strangely quiet, locked with mine for a single breath.

"I guess I am," he said.

And for one moment—brief and burning—I couldn't tell if we were still dancing... or just daring each other not to break and slap each other. That's what I secretly wanted to do to him.

Maxwell's hand slid against mine with practiced ease, guiding me through the next turn as if this were a rehearsal, not a spectacle in front of hundreds. Our movements were perfect—too perfect. Polished, choreographed, like two people who belonged on a ballroom floor together. But underneath it, there was friction. Sharp and real.

We moved in silence for a few beats.

"Still not smiling," I said under my breath. "You know people are watching us, right? We're supposed to look like we're enjoying this."

"I don't fake things," he replied, deadpan.

"Really? Because this feels extremely fake."

He didn't miss a step. "You seem to be enjoying it well enough."

"Trust me," I said, forcing a smile for the cameras, "this is just muscle memory."

He twirled me again—gentle, fluid—and when I came back into his arms, his voice dropped low, almost too low to hear.

"I don't hate you."

I blinked, startled, thrown by the sudden shift. "What?"

"You said I hated you." He looked forward, not meeting my eyes now. "I don't."

"That's funny," I said, swallowing down the heat in my throat. "You sure act like it."

He was quiet for a beat too long.

"I don't hate you," he repeated, his jaw tight. "But I don't trust you either."

"And there it is," I muttered. "The Maxwell royal seal of disapproval."

"I don't give that out lightly."

I huffed a breath—half laugh, half frustration. "You know, you keep talking about me like you've already read the whole book, cover to cover. But I'm not a report. Or a scandal. Or a royal protocol test. I'm just... here."

He looked at me then—really looked at me. For once, there was no sneer, no challenge in his eyes. Just... curiosity.

"Why are you here?" he asked quietly.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Not because I didn't know—but because maybe I did.

For a second, the music slowed. Or maybe it just felt like it. My hand stayed in his, our steps somehow still in sync despite the tension stringing between us.

"I'm here because I fought to be," I finally said. "And I'm not letting anyone, not even you, take that away from me."

Maxwell's eyes didn't waver. But something in him shifted—just barely.

"You're not what I expected," he murmured.

"Good." I lifted my chin. "Because I'm not here to fit expectations, I did that for too long"

The final notes of the waltz rose to a delicate crescendo, and Maxwell brought me into the closing position with practiced grace. Applause rippled around us.

He didn't let go immediately.

"I still don't trust you," he said quietly.

I raised a brow, breath still short. "Good. I don't trust you either."

But I didn't pull my hand away.

Neither did he.

The applause still lingered in the air as the final note of the waltz faded, but the energy between us didn't settle. Maxwell's hand stayed on mine for a second too long, his other hovering near my waist like he wasn't sure whether to let go or hold on. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between irritation and... something quieter.

I stepped back first. My breath was shallow, not from the dance but from whatever that had just been.

Before either of us could say a word, a familiar voice cut in—bright, sharp, and smug.

"Well, well, wasn't that a performance worthy of the front page."

Frederick.

He strolled over, one hand tucked casually into his jacket, the other swirling the drink in his glass. The grin on his face was a little too wide, a little too knowing.

"Didn't think you had it in you, cousin," he added, eyes flicking between us. "All that footwork, all that brooding charm—it's almost like you actually enjoyed yourself."

Maxwell exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, stepping back with military precision as he dropped my hand.

"Frederick, don't you have a harem to entertain?" he asked coolly.

Frederick just smirked. "Oh, they're fine. I told them I'd be right back. But I couldn't miss this. The two of you, center stage? That's pure cinema. And Amy—" he turned his full attention to me, tipping his head, "you looked stunning out there."

I gave him a half-smile. "Thanks. I'm guessing that's your way of saying I didn't trip."

"Oh, you did better than that." He took a step closer, just enough for Maxwell to stiffen beside me. "You held your own. I almost thought he was going to smile."

"I did not," Maxwell muttered.

"You almost did," Frederick teased. "It twitched. I saw it."

I stepped between them slightly, trying to cool the sudden flicker of territorial energy. "Alright, do we really need to compare facial muscles right now?"

Frederick chuckled. "Just pointing out history when I see it."

Maxwell shot him a look that could've frozen molten gold. "You've made your point."

"Yes, yes, I have. But I do think I deserve a dance, don't I?" Frederick said, his voice smooth now, turning to me again. "You still owe me one, Cherry Top."

Maxwell was already turning away, jaw set like granite. I think I was relieved to see him leave.

"I don't know," I said to Frederick, still catching my breath. "I'm not sure I have enough energy left in me for another royal performance."

He leaned in, offering his arm with exaggerated charm. "Then let me make it simple. No stupid correct postures or right angles and poises. Just fun. You remember what that is, don't you?"

I narrowed my eyes at him, but my fingers curled into his arm anyway. His question was more deeper than he could ever though "Fun sounds... suspicious, and distance"

He grinned. "Lucky for you it's only a dance away"

And as he led me back onto the dance floor, I glanced once over my shoulder.

Maxwell was already gone.

But the echo of his hand on my back, the fire in his voice, still lingered like the final note of a song that hadn't quite ended.