Episode 35

The Ballroom of St. James’s Palace was a vision of splendor and grandeur. Magnificent chandeliers illuminated the polished marble floors, and the painted ceiling depicted mythological scenes against a starry sky. Music floated through the air, a graceful melody setting the rhythm of the evening. London’s aristocracy moved elegantly through the room, exchanging trained smiles and whispers hidden behind fans and champagne glasses. But everyone knew this was no ordinary night. The king had summoned the nobility for a reason, and the scandal hanging in the air made every glance charged with unspoken meaning.

Lilian felt every pair of eyes settling on her as she moved through the ballroom alongside Lady Penelope and the Duke. The room shimmered with the presence of the highest members of the court, but what truly unsettled her were the hushed whispers. They were talking about her. And so, she was not surprised when Whitaker appeared before her.

"Lady Lilian," Whitaker greeted, his smile meant to be charming as he inclined his head in a small bow. "You look... radiant this evening."

Lilian did not return his smile. Instead, she offered a polite curtsy.

"Lord Whitaker."

"I presume you have not yet been invited for the first dance of the evening." His tone was smooth, but the unspoken pressure was there—a subtle, invisible thread meant to force her hand.

Before she could answer, she felt Lady Penelope’s firm touch on her arm, a reminder that she did not have to yield to anyone’s expectations.

"In fact," her godmother interjected, her smile calm and unwavering, "my goddaughter has yet to consider her invitations."

"Then perhaps she should do so now," Whitaker insisted, extending his hand with confidence.

Lilian looked at his hand. The last time she had danced with him, she had felt trapped in a fate from which there was no escape. But now everything had changed. And then, another voice cut through the silence.

"I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Whitaker."

The atmosphere in the ballroom shifted instantly. Eyes turned toward the source of the interruption.

Lilian turned—and found Gabriel.

He exuded unshakable confidence, his presence commanding as a man who would not back down from anyone. But what she saw in his eyes was not possession. It was something far stronger—a promise that he would not lose her without a fight. A silent battle was already unfolding between the two men. A confrontation waiting to erupt.

Gabriel offered a polite bow, but the glint in his eyes was far from mere formality. "Lady Lilian promised me this dance."

Whitaker pressed his lips into a tight line. "How curious. I don’t recall her mentioning that."

Lilian took a deep breath. Before either man could speak on her behalf, she made her choice.

"I’m sorry, Lord Whitaker," she replied, her voice soft yet unwavering, making it clear she would not yield. "But I did indeed promise this dance to Lord Sinclair."

And without waiting for further argument, she placed her hand in Gabriel’s, sealing her decision before the entire room.

A murmur rippled through the ballroom.

Whitaker remained motionless, his muscles taut beneath his immaculate attire, his fury barely concealed behind a smile that did not reach his eyes.

Gabriel wasted no time. He took Lilian’s hand firmly and led her toward the center of the ballroom, ignoring the watchful gazes that followed them.

The orchestra struck the first notes of the waltz, and Gabriel drew Lilian closer, his movements fluid and natural, as if they had danced together a lifetime. His hand settled gently yet firmly at the curve of her back, his touch commanding but never overbearing.

"You look breathtaking," he murmured near her ear, his voice so low that only she could hear.

Lilian’s heart faltered. "Gabriel…"

"Tonight, Lilian," he interrupted, his intense gaze locking onto hers as he guided her into the first steps, "we end this. Whitaker. Everything."

Lilian’s feet moved instinctively with the music, but her mind was trapped in this moment. Gabriel held her with care, yet led with undeniable control. The world around them dissolved.

But not for Whitaker.

From across the room, his fingers clenched tightly over his gloves, his nails pressing into the fine fabric. Humiliation pulsed in his blood. Everything he had thought secured was crumbling before his eyes—and before the entire aristocracy. He could not allow this to continue.

His rigid steps carried him forward, his target clear.

The King.

***

The music filled the ballroom with deceptive beauty, but the night was growing darker with each passing moment. As Gabriel and Lilian glided effortlessly across the dance floor, their movements sealed a silent promise of what was to come. Meanwhile, Whitaker ascended the steps toward the King, who had been watching everything with sharp attention.