CHAPTER EIGHT
868 Words
### *The Red Carpet"
Previously, I had highlighted myself from the black sedan.
The moment the door opened, a rush of cool breeze hit me.
The garage of this building connected almost directly with the entrance. It was a pattern. Too showy. Meant to show off the arrivals, I guess.
I was ready to help myself down, when I heard the click sound of the door opening fully.
And then a hand was brought to my face.
I was expected to accept his politeness.
Was this monster trying to be a gentleman?
I couldn’t read his emotions because he had a mask on. Black. Smooth. It covered the top half of his face, but his mouth was bare. And his jaw was tight.
I put my hand into his palm, deciding to play along with his games.
As he led me in.
There were a few people ahead of us.
A murmur ran through the crowd, and then a way was made for us to pass.
I had watched how the other gentlemen bowed and how the ladies curtsied, one by one, reaching the red carpet.
So when it was our turn, I curtsied.
But the man in front of me simply stood still.
Like he was an army waiting for orders.
Was he waiting for me?
Everyone might have thought we were a lovely couple.
With the gentle way he held my hand and led me inside.
But the stares told a different story.
Glares.
Some of hatred.
Some older women with admiration.
Younger ones with jealousy.
And the men... with want.
But none of them dared.
And then I shifted my gaze to this man.
And noticed how the people looked at _him_.
The younger women with awe and admiration.
The men without jealousy.
But most of all, the hint of fear was far greater than all of those gestures.
They feared him.
And that scared me more than anything.
We walked.
His grip was firm but not painful. His steps were measured. He didn’t look at anyone. Like they weren’t worth his attention.
Like I wasn’t either.
The ballroom was ahead. Light poured from the open doors. Music floated out. Laughter.
I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.
My heels caught.
I fell and twisted my ankle.
Pain shot up my leg.
I froze.
Terrified.
Of course this man was a beast. What if he shouted? What if he called me names? Hit me? Slammed me into the wall like he did before?
The crowd went silent for half a second.
I braced for it.
But to my ultimate surprise, he simply bent down.
Picked me up.
Into a princess carry.
No words. No anger. No mocking.
He just lifted me like I weighed nothing and disappeared into the ballroom with me in his arms.
The silence broke the moment we crossed the threshold.
Gasps. Whispers.
“Did you see that?”
“That’s His Royal Highness.”
“And who is she?”
I couldn’t breathe.
Not from the pain in my ankle.
From the way he was holding me.
Like I was fragile.
Like I was his.
He didn’t put me down until we were past the crowd, in a quieter corner near a marble pillar.
He set me down carefully. Too carefully.
Then he crouched in front of me.
Still wearing the mask.
Still unreadable.
He reached for my ankle.
I flinched.
He paused.
Then, slower, he took off my shoe.
His fingers were warm against my cold skin. He touched the swelling gently, testing it.
I expected cruelty.
I got silence.
He looked up at me. Even with the mask, I could feel his eyes on me.
Then he stood, turned, and snapped his fingers once.
A maid appeared instantly.
“Her ankle,” was all he said.
“Yes, Your Highness,” she whispered and knelt to wrap it.
He didn’t look at me again.
He walked away.
Into the crowd.
And just like that, the whispers started again.
But louder this time.
“Who is she to him?”
“He carried her.”
“He’s never touched anyone in public.”
I sat there, ankle throbbing, dress too tight, and heart beating too fast.
I had fallen.
And he had caught me.
Not with rage.
With care.
What game was this?
The older women watched me with something close to pity now.
The younger ones with sharper jealousy.
The men still with that same want, but now mixed with caution.
Because I had his attention.
Even for 10 seconds.
I tried to stand. The maid helped me.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “He said to wait here.”
So I waited.
Across the room, he was talking to lords and diplomats.
Smiling with his mouth but not his eyes.
And every few minutes, his gaze would flick back to me.
Checking.
Like he was making sure I was still there.
My ankle pulsed.
My chest pulsed harder.
This was the ball.
This was his world.
And somehow, I was now part of the display.
On the seventh day... I would feel.
I just didn’t expect it to start with his hands under my knees.
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- Writer
