Not Their Punchline

Isla stood stiffly in front of her bedroom mirror, arms awkwardly out to the sides while Callie fussed with the sleeves of a long, deep green dress that shimmered when the light hit just right. The fabric hugged Isla's figure in a way that made her feel both elegant and slightly panicked.

"I said I'd consider going," Isla muttered. "I didn't say I'd let you turn me into Cinderella's slightly bitter cousin."

"Too late," Callie said, her brow furrowed as she adjusted the neckline. "I already spent money. If you back out now, I'll wear this dress myself and flirt with the butlers."

"You bought this?"

Callie grinned. "It was on clearance. Which is criminal, because it's gorgeous. Honestly, I'm offended on behalf of the dress."

Isla stared at her reflection, adjusting a single loose curl near her temple. Her makeup was simple but precise. The soft gold shimmer on her eyelids brought out the amber flecks in her eyes. Her lips—nude gloss, nothing dramatic. The dress did most of the talking anyway.

Callie stepped back, hands on her hips. "See? You're gonna walk in and shut the room up."

Isla raised a brow. "Doubtful. They'll probably have security on standby."

"Well, if they try to drag you out, at least they'll be dragging out a legend."

Isla laughed despite herself. "Thanks for the pep talk, coach."

"I'm serious," Callie said, quieter now. "You're not going there to be anyone's joke. You're going because you belong in that room—even if they don't know it yet."

Isla didn't answer right away. She glanced down at the invitation still sitting on her dresser. The same invitation she'd once wanted to crumple into the nearest trash can. Somehow, now it felt heavier. Like a dare.

A quiet minute passed between them.

Then Isla reached for her purse. "Okay. Let's get this over with."

Callie held up her hands. "Hold up. I'm not coming. You're going solo, remember? The icon entrance? The lone wolf moment?"

Isla blinked. "Wait, you're not—?"

"Babe. If I walk in beside you, I ruin the whole mystique. Besides, I told my mum I'd help her move furniture tonight."

"Callie."

"Kidding. Mostly. Go," she waved toward the door, then winked. "Slay. Break hearts. Spill nothing on the dress. And remember: stand tall. You're not the punchline. You're the headline."

—

The palace ballroom was even grander than Isla remembered from old news specials and internet glimpses. Tall windows stretched up toward a domed ceiling carved with delicate gold filigree. The floors gleamed like glass, reflecting chandeliers that looked too heavy to hang. Soft classical music floated through the air, elegant and unobtrusive.

The kind of space where you were meant to glide, not walk.

Isla tried her best not to shuffle.

Eyes turned the moment she entered. Not dramatically—but enough. Subtle glances. Quick double takes. Whispered comments behind champagne glasses. For a split second, she thought of turning around and walking right back out.

But she didn't.

She moved further in, chin up, hands steady at her sides. Her dress flowed like water when she walked, the rich green standing out against the sea of pale pastels and expensive tailoring. Someone near the balcony actually gasped. Another person leaned toward their companion and murmured something that ended with a surprised laugh.

"She's here."

"That's her?"

"She actually came."

She could feel their eyes tracking her across the room—the girl from the bakery, the one who called out the prince and went viral for it. The meme. The meme in heels.

A cluster of older guests near the center turned slowly. One of them narrowed their eyes.

"Toast Girl," someone whispered, not unkindly. "Didn't think she'd show."

"She looks—"

"Different."

"Better than I expected."

She wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not. She kept walking.

Somewhere near the front of the ballroom, Isla spotted the long banquet table lined with towering floral arrangements and delicate silverware. Staff floated around refilling glasses. Crystal clinked. Small talk hummed like background music.

And then—him.

The prince stood near the center of the room, deep in conversation with a tall, sleek diplomat and a man who looked vaguely familiar from a government broadcast. Dorian was dressed in tailored navy, his lapel pinned with a small crest. He laughed at something, the kind of polished laugh that had probably been practiced in mirrors since birth.

Then his gaze drifted. Locked on her.

He didn't smile. Not right away. He looked surprised—not at her presence, maybe, but at the transformation. Isla couldn't say whether the flicker in his eyes was approval, confusion, or something else entirely.

She didn't flinch. Just raised her chin a notch and kept walking past him.

Let him wonder.

She didn't come here to explain herself. She came to remind the room that she didn't belong in anyone's shadow.

That she'd never agreed to be the joke.

Let them whisper.

Let them look.

She was here.

And she wasn't going anywhere.