The ballroom is all gold light and expensive perfume, crystal glasses catching chandeliers like scattered stars. Every handshake here costs something. Your father's grip tightens on your arm just before he steers you toward a man across the room - broad-shouldered, black hair, the kind of tall that makes a crowd part without trying. His father stands beside him, the silent weight of old money and older threats. You already know what tonight is. You've known since your father picked your dress. What you didn't count on was the heir's eyes finding yours a half-second before the introduction - and the corner of his mouth pulling into something that looks almost like an apology.