A Toast to Trouble

The ballroom glowed with a golden sheen, every crystal and candle polished to a blinding shine. Music floated above the chatter, soft and elegant, the kind that made people forget how sharp their smiles were.

As Isla moved deeper into the ballroom, her heels clicked against the marble floor as a sea of heads slowly turned. She didn't need a spotlight—her presence demanded it. The green gown Callie picked hugged her in all the right places, its velvet shimmer catching the light like frost. Not flashy. Not overdone. But striking. Bold. Unapologetic. Her curls were pinned just enough to look deliberate, with a few tendrils left wild—because why not?

She felt the stares—some curious, some amused, others whispering too loud to pretend they weren't talking about her. The crowd split around her like parting fabric, unsure whether to admire or sneer.

"That's her, isn't it? The toast girl."

"Honestly, I love her."

"She's got nerve showing up."

"Did you see the meme with the baguette sword—"

She kept her chin up, lips set in a practiced not-smile. The urge to retreat clawed at her stomach, but she forced herself forward.

She wasn't here to fade into the marble. She was here because they invited her.

A passing noblewoman gave her a look best suited for bad perfume. "How brave of you to come, Miss...?"

"Reed," Isla replied calmly, meeting the woman's eyes. "And you are...?"

The woman blinked. "Lady Penra of the High Eastern Court."

"Hmm. Must've missed your episode of National Embarrassments." Isla smiled and walked away before the woman could process it. A few stifled laughs echoed behind her.

She spotted a cluster of royals near the front dais-silk, medals, polished shoes. And at the center, Dorian.

He was dressed for the cameras. Midnight navy suit with silver threading, the kind of sharp that dared you to look away. His hair was slightly tousled, artfully imperfect. He wasn't holding court exactly, but people leaned in when he spoke. Laughed when he smirked. Waited for his cues.

Their eyes met for the second time that night.

It lasted a second too long.

Then he turned away, lifting a champagne flute from a passing tray.

Fine.

Isla moved toward the edge of the room, near one of the long, arched windows that overlooked the courtyard. She could still feel the weight of being noticed, but at least she wasn't boxed in by conversation.

"Didn't expect someone like you to show up alone," a smooth voice said.

She turned.

A young man—her age, maybe a little older—stood beside her, a crooked smile on his face. He wore the same kind of tailored arrogance everyone else in the room had, but less rehearsed. A little too relaxed for royalty. His eyes were a warm brown, not cold and polished like Dorian's. Mischief danced behind them.

"You're braver than most of the people in here," he added.

"Am I?" Isla asked. "I thought I was just desperate for free champagne."

He grinned. "There's that too. I'm Cael, by the way. Baron of somewhere tiny you've probably never heard of."

"Isla. Baker of everywhere you've definitely heard of."

He laughed—actual, genuine laughter. It surprised her enough to smile a little.

Cael leaned in, just enough to lower his voice. "You're the best thing to happen to this kingdom's court drama. The nobles are terrified of you."

"Oh? I thought I was a walking scandal."

"Both can be true."

A sharp clinking sound rang through the room.

Isla's smile vanished as Dorian stepped up to the platform, his champagne raised.

"Your Highness," someone called, prompting a wave of polite applause.

He didn't start with a speech. No greetings. No formalities.

His eyes scanned the room like a hawk playing prince.

And then, casually, "Before we begin, I'd like to raise a toast. To unexpected guests. To the bold and the brave. And to anyone who thinks calling me a 'talking haircut' on live television is a good career move."

Gasps and laughter rippled through the crowd.

Isla didn't blink.

Instead, she reached for a glass from a nearby tray, held it up, and—without looking away—tipped it toward him.

The crowd roared. Some in shock. Some in delight. Some couldn't believe she had the audacity.

But she did.

Dorian smirked faintly, then took a sip. A silent truce. Or maybe a warning.

Cael leaned over. "You are trouble."

"I'm dessert," she replied. "Sweet. Unnecessary. And sometimes too much for people to handle."

From across the room, whispers started again. But this time, the air had changed. She wasn't just a meme now. She was in the room, wearing elegance like armor and throwing back a toast like a queen in heels.

Isla didn't flinch. Didn't fumble. She'd come all this way.

And if she was going to be on display, then she might as well give them something worth remembering.