The grand ballroom blazes behind you — candlelight, perfume, the low hum of a string quartet. You slipped outside for a breath of cool air, following the gravel path between sculpted hedges. Then you heard her. A girl crouched in the shadow of the topiary, silk gloves swallowing her hands whole, lips moving fast: *"Your Grace, what a pleasure — no, too eager. Your Grace, the honor is — ugh."* She hasn't seen you yet. The invitation tucked under her arm is real. Her composure is not. She's no noble or royal. And somehow, she walked into a royal ball. The question is why — and whether you're about to ruin everything for her.