Party

The ballroom of the Cattivo estate was drowning in gold.

Gold drapes. Gold tablecloths. Gold-trimmed chandeliers the size of small warships.

 Even the damn cupcakes had gold leaf on them, because why not.

If you weren't rich enough to need a dedicated accountant just to calculate your shoe budget, you probably spontaneously combusted the moment you stepped through the door.

The great double doors yawned open at the far end, and thus began the Parade of Distinguished Guests, a cavalcade of power, money, and pretentious family crests.

First to arrive:

 The Marquis and Marquise de Villora.

 An elderly couple dripping in enough jewelry to finance a minor rebellion.

 The Marquise smiled so widely I thought her face might crack; the Marquis scowled like he'd just lost a bet.

Following them:

 The Viscount Ferrand, a wiry man with sharp eyes and sharper cheekbones, trailed by his son — a boy about my age who already had the smug, punchable aura of someone destined to invent stock market manipulation.

After that:

 Baroness Lienne, a terrifying woman clad entirely in black lace, whose mere glance made a passing waiter drop an entire platter of hors d'oeuvres.

Then a whole string of minor nobles, all elbowing each other to be closer to the center of power, aka my birthday cake.

I watched it all from a side room, standing behind a thin veil of silk curtains with Millie and the three knights looming protectively.

"Young master," Millie whispered, adjusting my ridiculously perfect collar one last time, "it's time."

"Time to step onto the world stage," I murmured.

"Time to walk to the cake," she corrected gently.

Same thing, really.

The steward cleared his throat, and the room fell into a reverent hush.

"Announcing the young master, Fuoco Cattivo, son of Duke Alphonse Cattivo and Lady Maribella!"

I swept into the room with all the gravity a five-year-old could muster.

And the crowd... parted like the Red Sea.

Eyes widened.

 Fans fluttered.

 Goblets wobbled dangerously.

Ah yes.

That reaction.

My looks — unfairly inherited from Mother — were a cruel weapon. Tousled black hair. Striking crimson eyes. Pale skin with a faint touch of color.

 In short, I was adorable.

Weaponized.

 Lethal.

I took small, deliberate steps across the marble floor, my cloak trailing dramatically, the ornamental sword at my side glinting under the chandeliers.

Inside, I was monologuing:

Behold, mortals. Gasp at the tiny sovereign. Weep at your inadequacy.

Outside, I smiled politely and nodded like the world's most precious diplomat.

People bowed. Curtsied. Whispered behind lace-gloved hands.

I made it to the center of the ballroom, where a monstrous cake (seven tiers, sugar sculptures, probably sentient) towered proudly.

Millie hovered just out of sight, ready to leap in case I tripped or got assassinated by an overzealous cream puff.

A butler appeared bearing a tray of sparkling cider in delicate flutes.

 I took one with the gravitas of a warlord accepting a peace treaty.

And then...

 I was trapped.

Like a beautiful exotic bird thrown into a pit of very talkative snakes.

Noblewomen cooed at me.

 Noblemen tried to size me up politically while pretending they weren't intimidated by a toddler.

Someone pinched my cheek.

That one dies first when I take over.

I was just about to engineer an excuse to fake a coughing fit and escape when I noticed her.

Standing near the great windows, half-hidden behind a column of ivy and roses, was a girl.

Maybe a year younger than me.

 Tiny.

 Fragile.

 Dressed in a simple pale blue dress without the usual battlefield of ribbons and gemstones the other girls wore.

She clutched the hem of her dress tightly, big silver-gray eyes darting nervously around the crowd like a rabbit surrounded by wolves.

She had soft caramel-colored hair falling in messy waves to her shoulders, and a dusting of freckles across her small nose.

Unlike the others, she wasn't trying to catch my eye.

 Wasn't preening or giggling behind her fan.

 Wasn't trying to impress or trap me.

She looked like she wanted to disappear.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

With the air of a king bestowing his favor, I gracefully handed my untouched cider to a passing servant and began striding toward her.

Heads turned as I moved.

Whispers buzzed.

"Where's he going?"

 "Is he looking for someone?"

 "Heavens, that walk — like a miniature prince!"

I ignored them.

Right now, the only thing that mattered was the shy little ghost hiding behind the ivy.

She saw me coming and froze like a rabbit spotting a hungry fox.

Poor girl.

If only she knew I was, in fact, a dragon.

I stopped in front of her and gave my most polite courtly bow, perfected after dozens of excruciating etiquette lessons.

"Good evening," I said in my sweetest voice.

She squeaked.

Actually squeaked.

It was adorable.

I smiled, slow and easy, lowering my voice slightly like I was taming a skittish colt.

"I'm Fuoco," I said. "And you?"

She twisted the hem of her dress harder.

For a second I thought she might faint.

Finally, she whispered, "C-Calla."

Calla.

A soft, delicate name for a soft, delicate girl.

I held out my hand in an invitation — not demanding, just offering.

Her tiny hand, trembling slightly, reached out and lightly touched mine.

Contact.

Victory.

The first alliance of my future empire had been forged — and all it took was being less terrifying than the rest of these aristocratic sharks.

I straightened up, still holding her hand gently.

"Shall we?" I asked.

She blinked.

"Shall we what?"

I leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially:

"Escape."

A little gasp.

Then, the barest spark of mischief in those storm-gray eyes.

And for the first time, she smiled.

Tiny. Shy.

 But real.

I had seen demons, monsters, angels, and devils in my long life.

None of them compared to that smile.

Grinning, I led Calla away from the suffocating crush of nobles toward the quieter edges of the ballroom, feeling like the mastermind of the greatest heist in history.

Inside, my monologue roared:

First public appearance: stunning success.

 First political move: charming alliance.

 First dance?

Well...

 We'd get there.

One step at a time.