Cashmere & Cameron – Welcome To Bellacorde

Bellacorde,
Domaine de Beauvigne

Welcome Indeed!

The second Luc left me alone in my room to rest and freshen up, I just stood there like someone had unplugged my brain. This wasn’t a guest bedroom. This was a situation. A sitting room, a bedroom, an ensuite bathroom with marble everywhere, and a balcony view so unreal I actually checked for green screens.

“This is CGI,” I whispered. “Like… Marvel‑level CGI. No way this shit is real.”

I paced. I stared. I tried not to hyperventilate. Was this a dream? Had to be.

Then I took a shower — a long one — using body washes that smelled like citrus and honey and something warm and expensive I couldn’t name. Okay, listen. I’ve been around the block with luxury. I’ve stayed in super‑upscale mansions and top‑tier hotels. But this? THIS? It was next‑level insanity. Guys. I mean… yes, please.

By the time I stepped out, I felt like a moisturized, exfoliated, reborn version of myself. I slipped into something cute‑but‑not‑trying‑too‑hard — one of my favorite feel‑good dresses — and started on my makeup. I had just put on my second layer of mascara when there was a knock.

I opened the door.

And there he was.

Luc, standing in the hallway in cream and white linen and tailored trousers, looking like personified sin on its day off. Casual, expensive, elegant. His posture was perfect — straight, effortless, like he’d been trained to move through the world with quiet confidence. His presence filled the doorway before he even spoke.

My heart a couple beats. I blushed. I could feel it. He definitely saw it.

He smiled — slow, warm, devastating — and offered me his arm.

The Vineyard Walk

He led me through this insane courtyard — fountains, lanterns, stone archways that looked like they’d been stolen straight off a Renaissance movie set — and out into the vineyards. Rows and rows of green stretching forever, one side heavy with pale grapes, the other with deep purple ones so dark they were basically black.

He walked like he belonged here. I walked like I’d been dropped into a perfume commercial.

“This is all your family’s?” I asked, trying not to sound like a tourist even though I absolutely was.

“For centuries,” he said, with his adorable accent, brushing his fingers along a vine. “Wines of any sort. Reds, whites, sparkling, … it’s tradition. Heritage. Identity.”

He plucked a grape, tasted it, nodded like a Michelin‑star judge, then handed me one.

It was the best grape I’d ever eaten. Offensively good. And while I did my best to eat clean and stay in shape, I never really got so excited about produce. But this grape was legit something.

Okay. So he was like… an upper‑class farmboy? Weirdly hot.

Then he said, “Tomorrow is a big event. An annual ball, and I’d like you to be my date.”

My brain: error 404, system rebooting.

DATE?!?!?! His DATE!?!!?!?!? We have not officially been on one of those yet!

“A… what kind of event?” I stuttered, mostly just to say something. I didn’t give a flying rubberduck what kinda date, all I heard was date!

“A masquerade ball.” he said.

“Oh! Like… a costume‑party? Awesome, because I make a mean Supergirl—I’ll have ya begging for mercy, for real!”

He laughed — warm, low, knee‑weakening. “Not that kind. White tie. Ballgowns. Venetian masks.”

“Oh.” Pause. “Umm, this may shock you, but I didn’t pack any ballgowns on account of I don’t own any. I am at uni, remember.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, smiling like he knew something I didn’t. “Someone will come to your room and help you with that.”

And right in the middle of me imagining dramatic ballroom kissing scenes from every romantic movie I’d ever watched — chandeliers, violins, masked strangers who turn out to be him —

He kissed me.

Soft at first. Testing. Then deeper, warmer, like he’d been waiting for the exact right moment.

It knocked the wind out of me. My knees actually buckled. I had to cling to him to stay upright.

When he pulled back, I pulled him right back in — Cameron‑style — kissing him like I meant it.

He enjoyed my enthusiasm. A lot.

Let’s just say we ended up with a lot less walking and a lot more kissing that afternoon.

Playing Dress Up – Next Level

Later, back in my suite, there was another knock.

I practically sprinted to the door, fully expecting Luc — for hardcore smooching round two, round three, whatever — but instead three uniformed women swept in like a couture SWAT team. No hello. No hesitation. Just immediate, coordinated fashion invasion.

One pushed a rolling rack of gowns that looked like they’d been smuggled out of Paris Fashion Week. Another carried a velvet tray of masks like she was presenting crown jewels. The third had a measuring tape around her neck and the energy of someone who could rebuild a wedding dress in under an hour.

Actual gowns. Actual couture. And when I say gowns, I mean GOWNS. Not prom dresses. Not “nice for a wedding.” I’m talking opera‑house‑closing‑night, Vogue‑editor‑front‑row, don’t‑even‑breathe‑near‑them gowns.

I fangirled. Hard. Like, embarrassingly hard.

While the women — maids? stylists? magical fashion fairies? — were busy pinning something on the rack, I legit snapped pics for Mom. I didn’t even pretend to be subtle. She needed to see this madness in real time.

And the masks. Oh my God, the masks.

Not cheap plastic crap. Not Etsy‑Halloween‑party masks. These were handcrafted Venetian masterpieces — gold leaf, filigree, feathers, gemstones — the kind of masks that probably had their own insurance policies.

I didn’t know where to look first. Everything sparkled. Everything shimmered. Everything whispered you are not ready for this life, girl.

But then I saw it.

The one.

A deep navy gown with a full, sweeping skirt that looked like it could hide a few people underneath. Sleeveless, with high opera gloves that made me feel like I should be holding a champagne flute and judging people from balconies. The bodice shimmered like midnight water — dark, iridescent, alive.

And the mask.

Gold accents. Black and brown feathers fanning dramatically. Mysterious. Regal. A little dangerous. Like the kind of mask a woman wears right before she ruins a man’s entire emotional stability.

It was perfect. It was me. Or maybe it was the version of me I wanted to be that night. For him.

They measured me, pinned fabric, murmured things in French that sounded expensive, and left me with a selection that made my jaw drop.

The second the door closed, I called Mom.

We screamed. We flipped. We lost our minds. It was a whole mother‑daughter meltdown.

Dinner and then some

Dinner was just me and Luc — candlelight, soft music, the whole romantic‑movie setup. The kind of table where you half‑expect a violinist to appear from behind a curtain. He explained his father and stepmother were delayed in Henfordshire picking up his sister because of weather. I’d meet them tomorrow.

He was charming. Warm. A little formal in a way I didn’t understand yet — like he’d been raised to make every gesture look intentional. And somehow that made everything worse. Or better. Or both.

After dinner, he walked me to my door.

We kissed again.

And this time… I didn’t let him leave.

I grabbed his shirt, pulled him inside, and he hesitated — just for a second — like he was giving me one last chance to change my mind.

I didn’t.

And then he didn’t either.

Whatever you’re imagining happened next? Yeah. That. All of that, all night long. Him plus me = Right in the gutter. We dove headfirst. I am not even sorry. Nor ashamed. Why would I be? I never once claimed to be chaste or some goodie two shoes. No aspirations to any of that either.

Look — I it always looks better on a female to be one of those “good girls,” all prim and proper and waiting for the man to make the first move, but why? It’s 2026. He had me all hot and bothered with that accent, his name, that vineyard walk, that kiss, the million kisses that followed, the most romantic dinner of my life, and then walking me to my door in that impossibly soft hallway light that made him look like a filter.

This entire vibe? Yeah.

No chance I was behaving.

I’m only human. And alive. And man, did we both feel human and alive that night.

No complaints out of him.

We eventually fell asleep totally exhausted, tangled together, windows open, curtains drawn, the breeze warm and sweet and smelling faintly of grapes and summer.

Life was good.

No.

Life was GREAT.

The Morning After

I woke up warm.

The good kind — not the sweaty, “I need a shower immediately” kind. No, this was the I‑could‑stay‑here‑forever kind of warm. And honestly? If this were my home, I probably would’ve stayed in bed all day. But I was a guest, and if there’s one thing I mastered young, it’s how to be a polite guest. Growing up between San Sequoia, Brindleton Bay, and Chestnut Ridge will do that to a girl. I had rooms everywhere. I learned to read a house like a language.

Right now, though? I was warm. Inside and out. Warm and tangled and pressed against something solid that smelled like citrus and linen and a little bit like last night.

Luc.

Hmmmm.

Before I could even process that thought, the door clicked open.

I jerked my head up — carefully — because that was NOT something I was used to. Privacy invasion much? I mean, who just randomly waddles into a room that’s clearly occupied?! Whoever that was, was lucky Luc was still blissfully asleep and not balls-deep in me. I mean, seriously though, right?!

Three maids swept in like a tactical unit, chattering in French, and yanked the curtains open in one synchronized motion.

Light detonated across the room.

Way. Too. Bright.

I squeaked — an actual squeak — and yanked the covers up to my nose like some scandalized Victorian maiden. Luc shot upright beside me, startled from deep sleep, hair mussed, eyes wide, looking like a man who had never been caught off‑guard in his life until this exact moment.

The maids froze. Then one of them squeaked.

One dropped a handful of towels. Another slapped a hand over her mouth. All three started apologizing in rapid‑fire French, curtsying so fast I thought someone might faint.

Luc cleared his throat, voice still sleep‑rough. “C’est bon, c’est bon… merci. S’il vous plaît, fermez la porte.”

I had no idea what that meant — the only French I know is food — but clearly he told them to beat it.

They scrambled out so fast one nearly tripped over her own shoes. The door clicked shut.

Luc fell back into the pillow with a groan.

I peeked over the blanket. He looked at me. I looked at him.

“Spoiler alert…” I whispered.

He covered his face with both hands. “Indeed. Not the way I wanted to break the news to my father.”

“Are you embarrassed they know you spent the night with me!?”

“No! Absolutely not!” He sat up, flustered in the cutest way. “As I said, I would have preferred to be the one to tell him that we are… close, rather than him hearing it from the staff.”

I grimaced. “You think they’ll tattle?”

He gave me a look. “I know they will. They’re obligated to report any… discrepancies to the butler. And he is obligated to give the report if asked. I announced a guest, so my father will ask. And he is here — they arrived earlier than expected. The maid mentioned it. This ought to be fun.”

He sighed, swung his legs off the bed, and started fishing for his clothes.

I slid behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. “Where are you going?”

He covered my hands with his, lifted one to his lips, kissed it, then turned his head toward me with a defeated smirk.

“Trying to preserve what little is left of my dignity. My father won’t appreciate the staff knowing about… us… before he did. He is rather… conservative.”

I giggled — couldn’t help it — and grabbed the pants he was holding. Then I tossed them across the room.

He blinked at me, accent thick when he exclaimed, “Briony…”

I tugged him backward onto the bed and swung a leg over him, straddling him before he could protest, both hands on his chest, pinning him down.

“Well,” I said, leaning down to kiss him, “since the reputation is ruined now anyway… might as well stay.”

He laughed — that low, warm, helpless laugh — and pulled me closer.

And… well. Let’s just say the maids had even more to gossip about.

Yes, I’m a sensual type. Inherited that from my mom — she’s a cool mom, and we had very specific talks. Mostly because she didn’t want me ending up accidentally pregnant while “testing things out.”

And no worries there, by the way. Yes, I’m a Cameron. Yes, there’s that stupid “Cameron Curse” tale — the one our ancestors invented before they understood how birth control worked. Cute story, terrible science. That will NEVER be me. I figured I’d sprinkle that in here.

There will not be any mini‑me’s until I decide there should be. Period.

My uncle, my cousin, his wife, Brad, his son, and his daughter are all doctors. I grew up surrounded by medical professionals and cautionary lectures. Trust me — I’ve got every base covered. Fate is not rear‑ending me like that.

I nookie for fun, not for production.

Breakfast of Shame

After a quick shower we got ready to face the fallout (P.S. — worth it). Luc walked me down a long hallway lined with portraits and sunlight; my hand tucked into the crook of his arm. I tried not to look like someone who’d been caught in bed with Tall, Handsome, and Very Much Not Supposed To Be In My Room by three maids at sunrise.

I failed.

My hair was too shiny. My skin was too glowy. I had that stupid grin I couldn’t stop. My walk was too… post‑all‑night‑nookie‑marathon.

Guys, I was so much in love. I swear I had never felt like this.

We stepped into a bright breakfast room that looked like it belonged in a magazine spread — tall windows, pale stone floors, a long table set with silver and porcelain, and the smell of fresh bread and coffee drifting through the air like a hug.

Four people were already seated.

A man with silver‑streaked dark hair, a well‑groomed silvery beard, and sharp eyes — older, handsome in that intimidating European‑CEO way. I didn’t need anyone to tell me that was Luc’s father. A neon sign couldn’t have made it more obvious.

Beside him sat a woman — elegant, poised, glossy pearly‑blonde hair, a soft smile that didn’t quite hide how observant she was. Definitely the wife. Not young, but beautifully preserved and effortlessly graceful.

Across from them: A redheaded young woman — early twenties, pretty in that effortless French way, ballerina posture, amber eyes that sparkled with mischief. And next to her, a man with dark hair and deep blue eyes, handsome enough to be in a cologne ad.

Was everyone here fricking hot? I mean, I’m a sucker for aesthetics, so yes please — sign me up for the IRL Pinterest board.

Luc squeezed my hand once before letting go.

“Bonjour, good morning,” he said in, warm and smooth. “Everyone, please meet Miss Briony Rose Cameron of San Sequoia in United Simdonia.”

Four sets of eyes turned to me.

I smiled. I hoped it looked normal. I wasn’t shy, but this was… extra.

The older man stood first, offering a polite nod. “Bonjour et bienvenue à vous, mademoiselle Cameron.”

The elegant woman rose next, kissing both my cheeks lightly. “Good morning, my dear. We are very happy to have you here.”

The redhead beamed. “Bonjour. I’m Leontine, Luc’s sister,” she said, accent lilting. “And this is my husband, Henry.”

Henry gave a charming little bow. “A pleasure,” he said — clearly Henfordian.

“Good morning, everyone,” I offered politely.

We all sat. Luc pulled out my chair for me, which earned him a look from his father — almost… assessing. Like he was filing it away.

The table was covered in everything breakfast‑related you could imagine — croissants, fruit, cheeses, eggs, pastries, jams in tiny glass jars. I reached for a croissant and tried not to look like I was afraid of knocking over the silverware. I was starving. Luc had worn me out. The covert smiles and winks he sent my way — and his noticeable appetite — told me the feeling was mutual.

Conversation started light — travel, the weather, the vineyards, preparations for tonight’s ball. Leontine asked about my studies. Genevieve complimented my dress. Henry asked if I’d ever been to Bellacorde before.

I was just starting to relax when the older man — Charles — set down his coffee cup with a soft clink.

“Luc,” he said mildly, “we truly enjoy meeting your companion — utterly delightful young lady — but perhaps next time you might remember to at least sneak back to your own room before morning. It helps preserve the illusion of propriety. Especially on a day as important as today.”

I choked on my orange juice.

Wow. Luc’s dad had those parental jabs down pat. Hats off to you, Sir. Almost as good as my grandpa Chase. Eeesh.

Luc didn’t flinch. Didn’t blush. Didn’t even look embarrassed.

He just said, “Oui, père.” Calm. Respectful. A little resigned.

My face was on fire. I mean, I’m not shy, but being called out by your new man’s father about him knowing what we did last night? Yikes.

Leontine hid a smile behind her teacup. Henry cleared his throat like he was trying not to laugh. Genevieve gave me a sympathetic look that somehow made it worse.

I managed a tiny, mortified, “Sorry. It was my fault. I… kept him.”

Charles waved a hand. “You are a guest. You have nothing to apologize for. My son knew better.”

Which somehow made me feel even more like I’d been caught sneaking out of a boy’s room during a high school field trip.

Luc reached under the table and brushed his fingers against mine — a small, secret reassurance — and my heart stopped only to start beating so hard I swore everyone could hear it.

Breakfast continued, but the air felt different now. Charged. Expectant. Like everyone at the table knew something I didn’t.

Getting Ready

Luc was called away from the breakfast table and then was busy all day — meetings, calls, people coming and going. I was left to my own devices and honestly? Not mad. This whole trip had been a whirlwind since we landed. SO much had happened. I kind of needed a minute to just… exist.

A maid knocked at 11:30 to ask if I’d like lunch in the dining room. I went — didn’t realize I’d be alone. Everyone else was caught up doing whatever VIT’s – Very Important Things – they did around here. Awkward. I ate, then retreated back to my room.

Took a long nap. Then a long bath. Felt more like myself after. Still floating on cloud nine, though.

Suddenly it was already 7 p.m. I declined dinner when I learned everyone else had a working meal again. What were they all working on so much? Was this normal here? Maybe that’s why they were so rich — total workaholics, all of them. Hmm.

Well, then it was time to get ready.

And I had no idea what to do with my hair.

None.

If we were heading to a lounge or a club? Hell yeah, I’d have ideas. But a masquerade ball? I’d done some internet research and that shit was serious. Like, more formal than a cathedral wedding. So how do you wear your hair for that?

Clearly an updo. But I couldn’t just bun this shit and roll up like I’d come straight from yoga with my crew. I was representing here too. My mom had a reputation for always being on fleek and super‑stylish — I couldn’t be her daughter sullying that rep now.

Sigh. First‑world problems.

I stood in front of the vanity with my phone propped against a perfume bottle, scrolling Pinterest, Tumblr, YouTube — braids, buns, Hollywood waves, updos that required engineering degrees — and every single one made me want to scream.

“Why is my head shaped like this,” I muttered at my reflection. “I am totally deformed!”

I called Mom, but her advice only made me madder. Not her fault — my nerves. Before we ended up biting each other’s heads off, I told her I loved her, hung up, and glared at myself.

I attempted a few styles. They looked like absolute crap.

I was two seconds away from rage‑quitting and throwing it into a messy bun when there was a knock.

A soft one. Familiar.

I opened the door — and instantly my mood improved several levels.

Luc stood there.

Not coming in. Not leaning on the frame. Just… standing. Hands behind his back, posture perfect, looking at me like he’d been waiting all day for this thirty‑second moment.

“Hi,” he said, voice low — that soft, lilting accent brushing over the word like it had been warmed in his mouth first.

My heart did a somersault.

“Hi.”

He stepped closer — just enough that I could smell the warm, clean scent of him — and brushed a thumb along my cheek.

“I won’t stay,” he murmured, vowels rounding in that way that always made my pulse jump. “I just wanted to see you before everything begins.”

Before I could answer, he kissed me.

Quick at first. Then longer. Then deeper — the kind of kiss that makes your knees forget their job.

I melted into him, hands in his shirt, touching skin, door wide open, zero shame.

Then he froze.

Not in a bad way — in a someone‑is‑coming way.

He stepped back just as three uniformed women swept in like a couture hurricane — one with the gown, one with the mask, one pushing a makeup trolley the size of a small car.

All three dropped into quick, precise curtsies.

He straightened instantly, composed like nothing had happened.

Damn cockblocking tattling chicks. Argh.

“I believe this is farewell for now,” he said softly. “I will see you at the ball. Someone will fetch you later and bring you there.”

Panic fluttered in my chest. “Luc… how will I find you? I don’t know what you’re wearing. And it’s a masquerade.”

He smiled — slow, confident, devastating.

“I will find you.”

Then he pointed to the navy gown on the rack — my gown — winked, and walked away.

The door clicked shut.

I stood there, flustered, breathless, cheeks burning.

The three women turned to me with identical polite smiles.

“Shall we begin, mademoiselle?”

Oh. We were doing this.

Alright. Let’s go, girls.

They started with the gown.

The navy one — the one Luc pointed at — with the sweeping skirt and the bodice that shimmered like midnight water. They slipped it over my head, adjusted the corset, pinned the hem, smoothed the fabric until it looked poured onto me.

Then hair. Oh, thank the Lord above. Yes.

One brushed it out, another curled it, the third twisted and pinned and sculpted until it became an elegant updo with soft tendrils framing my face — the kind of hairstyle I’d saved on Pinterest a thousand times but never thought I’d actually wear.

Makeup next.

Soft golds and warm browns on my eyes. A perfect wing. Lashes that could cause traffic accidents. A warm rose lip that made my mouth look kiss‑swollen in the best way.

Then nails — a simple clear gloss that somehow looked better than any color.

Jewelry followed — delicate, shimmering pieces chosen without asking me, but somehow exactly right.

“Good? You like?” one asked in her lilting accent.

I just stared at my reflection and nodded.
Kinda rude, I know, but I was legit fresh out of words.

And finally, the mask.

Black and brown feathers fanning dramatically, framing my eyes, transforming me into someone mysterious and powerful and… beautiful.

When they stepped back, I almost cried.

I didn’t look like a uni student. I didn’t look like a girl who’d been caught in bed with a boy that morning. I didn’t even look like the Briony I knew.

I looked legit.

I looked like the version of myself I’d always wanted to be. Like some fantasy‑magic‑princess imagination come to life. Like the female protagonist of every romantic movie I’d ever watched.

The women smiled, bowed, and slipped out quietly.

For a moment, I was alone.

Just me. My heartbeat. And the girl in the mirror who looked like she belonged in a movie.

Then — another knock.

A uniformed man stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back.

“Mademoiselle Cameron,” he said. “It is time.”

“One moment,” I breathed.

I ran — carefully, because the skirt was enormous — to the full‑length mirror, snapped a picture for Mom, and tucked my phone into the tiny hidden pocket sewn into the gown.

Then I followed him.

My heart pounding. My mask in place. My gown whispering against the floor.

And somewhere in the distance, music was already playing.

The Ballroom

The doors opened.

And for a moment — a real, suspended, weightless moment — I forgot how to breathe.

The ballroom wasn’t just a room. It was an entire world unfurling at once.

Gold light dripped from chandeliers like molten honey. Velvet drapes pooled at the floor like spilled wine. Masks glittered everywhere — feathers, jewels, metallic filigree — floating faces in a sea of silk and satin, each one turning, laughing, shimmering.

Music swelled, violins and cellos weaving through the air like smoke curling from a candle.

I stood frozen in the doorway, the world tilting around me.

Then a hand touched my waist.

Luc.

No idea where he came from — he just materialized like a wish granted — but thank God he did. And man, he was a sight. Tall, masked, devastating in a midnight‑black tux that fit him like it had been sewn directly onto his body, and a lavender ribbon across his chest like some kind of Miss World sash. Several men wore them — apparently a thing here.

His mask was sleek and dark, framing his eyes in a way that made my stomach drop straight through the floor.

He took my hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it — slow, deliberate, reverent. “Tu es… à couper le souffle.” His voice dropped, warm and unguarded. “You look breathtaking, mon cœur.”

My brain tried to form a sentence. It failed. Spectacularly.

Whatever he said … it was honey down my throat. Warm. Sweet. Dangerous.

“You—look—oh my God,” I managed, sounding like a malfunctioning robot. Words were not happening. Just incoherent babbling and drooling.

His smile was pure sin wrapped in silk — the kind that said he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

“Champagne?” he asked, like he wasn’t already ruining my entire circulatory system.

I nodded. Words were still not an option.

He returned with two flutes, handed me one. I took a sip and almost ascended.

“Oh hell. Champagne is my weakness. My kryptonite. My love language. And this—” I pointed at the glass, “—this is unfairly good.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Is this… yours?”

He smirked, then let out a soft, knowing chuckle — the kind that curled low in my stomach. “Oui. From our vineyards.”

I groaned dramatically. “Great. Fantastic. Amazing. The man I’m obsessed with also makes the champagne I’m obsessed with. I’m doomed.”

He laughed — low, warm, delighted — and winked like he fully intended to keep being my downfall.

I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “I missed you today.”

His eyes softened behind the mask — warm, unguarded, something that made my chest ache. “I missed you too.”

The music shifted — slow, sweeping, impossibly romantic. Luc took my glass, set both aside with a quiet confidence that made my pulse jump.

He extended his hand, bowing slightly. “May I have this dance?”

Panic fluttered in my chest. Oh, I loved dancing — LOVED — but…

“Luc, I don’t ballroom dance.”

He stepped closer, voice warm against my ear. “You told me once you have music in your blood. Remember? Just follow my lead.”

I put my hand in his.

He pulled me into the center of the floor.

And then the world… changed.

His hand settled at my waist — firm, steady, claiming without being possessive. His other hand held mine, fingers threading through like he’d been waiting all night for that exact contact. He guided me into the first step, slow and sure, and my body responded before my brain caught up.

Somehow — impossibly — it worked.

The room blurred into gold and motion. My dress swirled around us like a navy storm cloud. The chandeliers glittered overhead like constellations.

Luc moved with a grace that made me feel like I’d been dancing with him for years, not seconds. Every shift of his hand, every subtle pressure of his palm, every breath he took — I felt it. I followed it. I trusted it.

He spun me once — slow, deliberate — and the skirt flared around us like a blooming flower. I laughed, breathless, surprised at myself.

He smiled — that soft, private smile he only ever gave me — and pulled me back in, closer this time. My hand slid up to his shoulder. His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist. My pulse jumped so hard I felt it in my teeth.

We moved through the crowd like we were the only two people in the room. Like the music had been written for us. Like the night had been waiting for this exact moment.

He dipped me — gently, effortlessly — and for a heartbeat I hung suspended, staring up at him, the world upside down and perfect. When he pulled me upright, his face was just in front of mine, just barely, I could feel his breath and my breath caught.

I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want anything to end.

He guided me into another turn, slower this time, intimate. My hand slid down his arm. His fingers tightened at my waist. Our masks brushed. Our breaths mingled. The music wrapped around us like silk.

I felt dizzy — not from the spinning, but from him. From the champagne. From the night. From the way he looked at me like I was the only person who existed.

The final notes lingered in the air, trembling like a held breath.

When the music faded, I was breathless — buzzing, glowing, high on everything. I tugged him toward one of the open terrace doors.

“Come with me.”

He followed without hesitation.

Garden Whispers

The courtyard garden was quiet, washed in lantern‑glow and moonlight. Roses climbed the stone walls, their scent drifting through the cool night air. A fountain murmured somewhere in the dark, soft and steady.

I pulled him into a shadowed corner and kissed him — hard, masks brushing, breath mixing, hands finding each other like magnets.

He kissed me back with equal hunger, then slowed… then stilled.

When he pulled away, something in his expression had shifted.

Serious. Vulnerable. Raw. Like he was standing on the edge of something enormous.

“Briony…” he whispered.

My name sounded different. Like a prayer. Like a surrender.

He exhaled — shaky, quiet — and the next words came out in a low, trembling breath:

“Je t’aime.”

French. Soft. Uncontrolled. Like it slipped out of him before he could stop it. Like it had been sitting on his tongue all night, waiting for the smallest crack in his composure.

My heart stopped.

Yeah, I didn’t speak French — not really — but I knew what that meant. Everyone knows what that means. But did he really say it? Or was I tripping, high on champagne and moonlight and this entire vibe?

Then he lifted his eyes to mine — steady now, certain, like he’d made a decision he couldn’t take back — and said it again, this time in English, each word deliberate:

“I love you.”

Oh. Oh my God.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
He said it. He actually said it. I wasn’t just hearing shit.
OH. MY. GOD!

This godlike hunk of a man loves me. I just died and went straight to heaven. Probably to the tune of Edith Piaf’s ‘La Vie en Rose’. Cheese much?

Also: Beckett who? I should send that boy a thank‑you card for not getting his shit together or I would’ve missed out on Luc.

My knees gave out. Actually gave out.

He caught me instantly, guiding me to a stone bench like he’d been ready for this exact outcome.

“For this very reason,” he murmured, trying to lighten the moment, “we still keep fainting couches in the ballroom. Old tradition from when the ladies were suffocated by very tight corsets.”

I laughed — breathless, overwhelmed — but he wasn’t laughing. Not really.

He was still watching me with that raw, open expression — like he’d handed me his whole heart and was waiting to see what I’d do with it.

He opened his mouth.

“Briony, there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you—”

“I love you too,” I blurted, realizing I hadn’t even said it back yet. And I did. I was sure of it. I fucking loved him already. Fast? Yeah. But whatever. I didn’t care.

We froze.

The air between us felt electric — charged, trembling, holy.

Then a man in a dark suit appeared, bowing slightly. He whispered something to Luc in French.

These people had the worst timing. Fuck off, we are having a moment here.

Luc closed his eyes, nodded. “Je viens tout de suite.”

He stood, helping me up with careful hands.

“What did you want to tell me?” I asked, heart pounding.

He looked at me — regret, affection, inevitability all tangled together.

“Too late now,” he said softly. “You’ll know in a moment.”

The Announcement

We re‑entered the ballroom just as the music faded.

A hush fell — not polite, not casual — but the kind that feels like the entire room is holding its breath at once. Like the air itself knew something was about to break.

Charles — Luc’s father — stood at the front, mask removed, expression solemn but composed, every inch the commanding center of this world.

“Mesdames et messieurs,” he began, his voice carrying with practiced authority. “Thank you for gracing our annual ball with your presence.”

The crowd stilled. Silk rustled. Feathers trembled. Even the chandeliers seemed to listen.

“Tonight, before tomorrow’s official communiqué, I must share something of great importance with you — with our people.”

My stomach twisted.

Luc stood beside me, still holding my hand — warm, steady, grounding — and yet suddenly I felt like I was floating.

Charles continued, his tone deepening, ceremonial, ancient:

“For some time now, my health has made it increasingly difficult to serve Bellacorde with the vigor and devotion she deserves. And so, after much reflection… and with a heavy heart… I have reached a decision.”

The room seemed to inhale as one — a single, collective breath.

“When the formalities are complete, in roughly about six months from now, I shall abdicate my duties in favor of my son…”

My heart stopped.

“…His Serene Highness, le Prince Héréditaire, Luc Sébastien Beaumont.”

The words hit like a thunderclap.

A ripple tore through the crowd — shock, awe, reverence — masks turning, whispers rising like wind through leaves.

My ears rang. My pulse roared. My hand slipped from Luc’s without meaning to.

“He will soon ascend as the Sovereign Prince of Bellacorde, guardian of a legacy that has endured nearly eight centuries. Que Dieu le guide et le protège.”

Eight centuries. Prince. Sovereign. Luc.

The world tilted.

Luc stepped forward to speak — calm, gracious, composed — but his voice dissolved into a distant hum, like I was underwater.

My vision tunneled. The chandeliers blurred. The floor swayed beneath me.

My knees buckled. The room spun.

And then—

Everything went black.