The ballroom held its breath.
The violins gave a startled whimper, bowstrings faltering against strings as if even the music recoiled. Conversations—once effervescent, polished with flirtation and politics—snapped mid-laugh, clipped in half, scattered like porcelain shattered against marble.
And then, like a rip through silk, the heavy gilded doors at the far end groaned open—not with grace, but with challenge. No attendant opened them. No steward announced a name. They parted on their own, pushed wide by the kind of presence that made tradition flinch.
A voice echoed through the hush, too loud, too smug, slicing through the stillness like a blade across velvet.
“Well, well,” Theo Voss drawled, arms spread in theatrical delight. “It appears the party has started without me.”
The words
