Chapter 7 Aug 18, 2025 Celeste The masquerade had arrived. Music filled the ballroom, voices rose in laughter, but none of it reached me. I moved through the glittering crowd like I was watching myself from somewhere else-smiling, nodding, drifting from face to face while my thoughts stayed fixed on one thing. Midnight. The balcony. The rose garden. He had told me where to be. Not asked-told. And I hadn't argued. Now the hour was approaching, and I didn't know what I wanted. Or what it would mean if I went. He was my husband's father. That fact sat in my chest like a stone, heavy and impossible to ignore. I didn't love my husband anymore-could barely remember the last time he'd spoken to me kindly. But that didn't make this feel any less wrong. Whatever "this" was. My eyes kept searching the crowd until I found Renard near the far wall. He stood with Lady Catherine de Montclair and her younger sister, his mask forgotten in his hand as he leaned closer to catch their words. His mouth curved in a smile I hadn't seen in months-the kind that made him look like the charming prince I'd thought I was marrying. The way he looked at them-engaged, interested, alive-made something twist in my chest. He laughed at something Lady Catherine said, his hand briefly touching her arm in a gesture so natural it took my breath away. *He can touch them,* I realized with sudden, painful clarity. *He can flirt with them, charm them, desire them. Just not me.* Not his wife. Not the woman he was supposed to love. I was too pure for him, too sacred, too much like the marble saints in the chapel. He could want other women-had probably bedded half the ladies at court-but not me. Never me. I was his wife, which meant I was untouchable. Holy. Frozen. Dead. He hadn't looked at me once since we'd arrived. To any observer, we were strangers who happened to share a name and a cold, empty bed. I turned away from the sight of my husband's animation and continued moving through the room, accepting champagne and making small talk. But beneath the practiced smile, my heart raced with one memory. I saw Alexandre long before he approached-standing in the shadows, watching me like he had every right to. He moved through the crowd with fluid grace, his presence commanding attention even as he seemed to blend into the background. Unlike other guests, he wore no mask, his face stark and beautiful in the candlelight. Unafraid of who might recognize him or what scandal it might cause. When the final waltz began, he stepped into the crowd with purposeful strides. The orchestra's strings swelled, filling the air with melody that seemed to pulse with my heartbeat. I watched him approach, breath catching as he navigated between dancing couples. He reached me before I could retreat. When he offered his hand, I took it without hesitation. "This is dangerous," I whispered as he led me onto the dance floor. "Then why did you come?" he said quietly, guiding me into the slow rhythm. Our hands touched-nothing more than the prescribed hold of a formal waltz. But it burned. The heat of his palm sent electricity up my arm, and I had to concentrate on not trembling. We maintained proper distance, but our eyes never broke contact. I studied his face as we moved together-the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the intensity in his storm-gray eyes. My heartbeat pounded so loud I was certain he could hear it over the music. The waltz seemed to last forever and end too quickly. When the final note rang out, I turned too fast, eager to escape the intensity of his gaze. I slipped through a side door onto the balcony. Cold air rushed over me, cutting through the lingering heat of the ballroom. I reached the railing and leaned forward, drawing a steadying breath. Then my slipper caught on my gown's hem. I stumbled, ankle twisting-and before I could fall, a hand caught my arm. Alexandre caught me, one hand steadying my back, the other at my waist. I froze, breathless, acutely aware of how close we were, how his touch burned through my dress. His hand lingered at my waist, grip firm but gentle. "Let go," I whispered, though every fiber of my being screamed the opposite. "I can't," he said, voice rough with something I didn't dare name. I looked up at him, eyes burning with unshed tears and desperate longing. "Then kiss me." His lips hovered over mine-close enough that I could feel his breath, warm and unsteady. My fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, anchoring myself as the world spun. "Do it," I whispered, voice breaking. "Kiss me." "If I do," he murmured, forehead nearly touching mine, "I won't stop." "If you don't," I breathed, "I'll never sleep again." He closed his eyes, and I felt the moment of surrender, felt him lean closer. His forehead rested against mine, and for a heartbeat, I thought he would close the distance. Then, quietly, like it broke him to say it: "I cannot betray my son." My chest caved in, the words hitting like a physical blow. "You already have." He stepped back, hands shaking as he released me. His eyes went hard, shuttering against the pain I knew was reflected in my own. "I'm not that selfish," he said. But he didn't sound convinced.