The fifth day of the ball was in full swing; the grand hall bathed in golden light from the massive chandeliers overhead. The nobles moved through the space with effortless grace, weaving their own political dances behind masks of civility and pleasantries.
Princess Anya stood at the edge of the festivities, her fingers curling around the delicate stem of her glass as she surveyed the room. She was never alone; nobles from her own kingdom surrounded her, as well as a few imperial aristocrats eager to curry favor. Their presence was a silent confirmation of her status, a reflection of the authority she still wielded in certain circles.
Her gaze shifted to the Emperor, seated at the head of the hall, always the picture of authority. The memory of his cold dismissal remained painful. She had been denied everything she deserved: the position, the power, and the legacy. And Damian had discarded her as if she were nothing.
But she was not so easily ignored.
