The ballroom froze the very second Prince Leonard’s body hit the marble. I swear even the chandeliers seemed to stop flickering. The music cut off mid-note—one poor violinist scraping the wrong string before silence strangled the sound dead.
For half a breath, maybe longer, nobody moved. Not a whisper, not even the scrape of a slipper. And then—like glass splintering—the screaming began.
Guards lunged forward, steel flashing, forming a rough circle around the prince. Ladies fainted into whichever powdered chest stood nearest, jewels clattering, lace collapsing. Someone dropped a tray of sugared almonds and they skittered across the floor like tiny bones. The illusion of control, of order, shattered into raw messy panic.
Before anyone else dared move, I was on my knees beside him. My gow
