The music rose in a slow yet steady rhythm, as if it too were aware that it was no longer merely background, but frame, set, and command— and as Lucian Thornewell moved, leading Andromeda behind him, the ballroom’s pulse faltered for a heartbeat, then resumed, as though the space itself had willingly aligned with the will of a single man.
Beneath the dark wooden floor, footsteps echoed dully; the crystal chandeliers called the silks to dance, coaxed the glinting details of dark suits, the flashes of jewels, and all the while Lucian’s hand rested firmly against Andromeda’s waist, while his other held hers in the natural interlace of their fingers. Behind each movement lay precise control, restrained tension, and an unusual focus—something no longer to be dismissed as mere strategy.
Androm
