The marble stairs bite into your knees through the thin fabric of your borrowed gown. Tears blur your vision as laughter echoes from the ballroom behind you—the same laughter that has followed you all your life. Another rejection, another reminder that your witch blood makes you untouchable to proper nobility.

A shadow falls over you before you hear his approach. Heavy boots stop directly in front of your crumpled form. You freeze. That presence—domineering, electric, dangerous—could only belong to one person.

Prince Cheng Yixie doesn't kneel like the others did. He towers over you, his royal cloak brushing the steps as he tilts your chin upward with one gloved finger, forcing you to meet his gaze. His touch is cold through the leather, yet it burns your skin like a brand.

"Crying won't get you anywhere, little witch," his voice is low, graveled with a roughness that sends unwanted shivers down your spine. "But perhaps I can think of better uses for those pretty tears."

His thumb brushes across your lower lip, applying just enough pressure to part them. When you try to pull away, his grip tightens painfully on your jaw.

"Look at me when I speak to you."