Annabelle's feet were sore, her body aching from the hours of dancing. The once-pristine gown that clung to her frame now felt like a weight, dragging her down as the night wore on. Her corset was too tight, and every turn of her head made her dizzy, but she wasn't about to complain. She had danced with half the nobles in the kingdom, laughed until her stomach hurt, and played the part of the dutiful daughter, always smiling and gracious.
But amid all the glittering festivities, something in the air felt different tonight. It was as though the ballroom, with its high ceilings, golden chandeliers, and sparkling array of guests, was holding its breath. There was an undercurrent of tension, an electric hum that vibrated beneath the surface of the merry chatter. She could almost taste it on the tip of her tongue, an unspoken promise hanging between the noble families.
The music played on, a soft waltz echoing through the room as couples swirled across the marble floors. Yet, Annabelle's attention had long since drifted. Her gaze followed the movement of Lucien, the Emperor's son, whose aura of confidence could make the entire room still. He moved through the crowd like a shadow, smooth and elegant, every movement deliberate as if he had learned the dance of power from the moment he was born. At his side was Cassian, his ever-present companion, looking every bit the perfect foil—more quiet, more intense, with eyes that held secrets Annabelle could only guess at.
But the two of them were not the source of her unease tonight.
It was something else. Something much subtler, yet far more powerful. The way they moved through the crowd, their paths oddly separating as if fate itself was pulling them apart.
She could feel it—the start of something. The novel was no longer just a story in a book; it was unfolding before her eyes, and she was stuck in the middle of it. She wasn't an actress in this grand drama, but she was most certainly a spectator. Just a shadow in the background, an onlooker to the chaos about to unfurl.
And it wasn't just about them, it was about Elvianne.
Annabelle's mind flickered back to earlier in the night when she had first seen the fragile, beautiful girl—the one who seemed to have been ripped straight from the pages of the novel and placed into the heart of this bustling palace. Elvianne had arrived with such innocent grace, so ethereal that she almost seemed to glow, as though she didn't belong in this world at all.
Annabelle had watched the girl as she glided through the crowd, every step shy, every glance hesitant. There was a softness to her, a vulnerability that made Annabelle's heart ache in a way she couldn't explain. And, somehow, that ache had only deepened when she realized who she was: the heroine of the story. Elvianne, the girl who would fall victim to every cruel twist of fate, who would suffer at the hands of those closest to her.
The light, delicate blue gown she wore looked as though it had been spun from moonlight itself, soft and shimmering with every movement. Her golden hair cascaded around her shoulders in loose waves, and those wide, doe-like eyes were the color of clear skies, full of innocence and hope. She was the picture of purity—too pure, too beautiful for a world filled with such darkness.
Annabelle's heart had skipped a beat when she realized the girl's identity. She wasn't a character in a book anymore. She was real. Flesh and blood. Standing right in front of Annabelle. And she would be destroyed.
The scene had been set—the stage was ready for the tragic meeting between Elvianne and Elara Voss, the villainess who would ruin her life. Annabelle felt a pit form in her stomach as she realized this was where the story began. This was where everything would start to go wrong.
But there was something even more unnerving: as she watched Elvianne—so innocent, so unaware—she noticed another figure across the room, standing just a bit too far from the crowd, watching the young woman with a calculating glint in her eyes. Annabelle didn't need to look twice to know who it was.
Elara Voss.
The dark-haired beauty was dressed in a gown of deep red and black, so extravagant and striking it seemed to swallow the light around her. The way she stood—perfectly composed, with her chin slightly lifted as though she were a queen already—struck a chord in Annabelle's chest. The woman's every movement radiated control, power, and something far more dangerous: malice.
Annabelle couldn't tear her eyes away as she watched Elara. There was a fire in those eyes, a darkness waiting to burn everything down. She was a woman consumed by her ambitions, her jealousy, and her rage. And she would not hesitate to destroy everything in her path to get what she wanted.
But what struck Annabelle the most was how, despite being in the middle of the palace, surrounded by the nobles, the music, and the celebration, everything felt cold. It was as though the light-hearted festivities couldn't reach the dark corner of the room where Elara stood. And it wasn't just her; it was Elvianne too. There was a tension building around them, an invisible force pulling everything into a storm.
Cassian and Elvianne had disappeared. Annabelle hadn't seen them leave, but she could feel their absence like an absence of breath. They were gone.
Her heart skipped a beat as she realized where they had gone.
It was inevitable. The first encounter between Elvianne and Cassian was unfolding right before her eyes. The novel was happening. It wasn't a story on a page anymore; it was her reality. And yet, no matter how she willed it to stop, she couldn't change it.
She couldn't be the hero. She wasn't meant to be a part of this. She wasn't even a character in the story.
She was just an observer. A bystander. A nobody.
But still, she couldn't help but wonder, could there be a way to intervene? Could she—Annabelle Dorne—make a difference?
The ballroom continued around her, the music swelled, and the laughter of nobles filled the air, but Annabelle's mind remained distant. There was nothing she could do, she reminded herself, no reason to get involved. Her part in this was nothing more than a fleeting shadow.
But as the night drew on, she felt a sense of unease building inside her, one she couldn't shake, one that was far more powerful than any of the laughter or music around her.
The novel was starting, and Annabelle knew that things would never be the same again.