Chaos erupted across the Royal Princess. Guests screamed, heels clacked against the polished floors, and security rushed to contain the situation.
Rosalind pressed her back against the cold wall of the corridor, her breathing controlled but quick. Her instincts—honed from years of experience—were screaming at her.
This wasn’t random.
The stranger beside her let out a low whistle. “Well, that’s one way to start a party.”
She shot him a glare. “You think this is funny?”
“No.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “I think it’s interesting.”
Rosalind clenched her fists. This man—whoever he was—knew far too much. But before she could question him further, heavy footsteps pounded against the floorboards.
Tristan.
His approach was sharp, precise, his gaze locked onto her with laser focus. H
