The ballroom glittered like a sea of stars, each shimmer reflecting the wealth, power, and precarious alliances of the Zodiac Archipelago. Every inch of the grand venue was a testament to excess—crystalline chandeliers casting a golden glow over silk-clad elites, velvet drapes pooling like liquid shadows against the towering windows, and marble floors polished to an impossible gleam. Conversations wove through the air, a symphony of laughter, hushed murmurs, and the occasional clink of crystal glasses painting the illusion of civility.
But beneath the surface, Seventeen knew the truth.
This was no mere gala. It was a battlefield where words were wielded like weapons, smiles concealed daggers, and power shifted hands beneath the guise of pleasantries. Every person in this room was here for a reason, each playing their role in an intricate game of influence and deception.
And so was she.
For the past hour, she had drifted between conversations, effortlessly embodying Serena D'Angelo's charm. She laughed at the right moments, delivered carefully crafted compliments, and posed just enough questions to feign genuine interest. She listened intently as an aging aristocrat recounted his family's influence over the archipelago, as if she hadn't already memorized his entire bloodline weeks ago.
[How predictable,] she mused, offering him a polite nod as he droned on. [Everyone here is just playing their part in this endless charade. At least I'm honest about my deception.]
A flicker of movement caught her attention. Across the room, Amelia and Sablina stood near the balcony, their sharp gazes sweeping the gathering like sentries scanning for threats. They had been more guarded earlier in the evening, but now their postures were more relaxed, their expressions less wary.
[They're starting to trust me.]
Good.
Trust was a currency more valuable than gold in a place like this, and she intended to hoard it. But tonight, her focus wasn't on them.
Tonight, her target was Draco.
Her gaze shifted, weaving through the sea of guests until it landed on him. He stood at the edge of the ballroom, engaged in conversation with his father, Jove de Lavissaye, the formidable leader of Libra. Even from a distance, Draco exuded his usual air of cold calculation, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. But his eyes…
His eyes told a different story.
There was something darker lurking beneath the mask of composure, something simmering just beneath the surface.
[What are you hiding, Draco?] she wondered, tilting her head slightly as she observed him.
He moved through the crowd with effortless grace, offering clipped nods and measured words as he greeted various dignitaries. Every gesture was precise, every interaction controlled. He was a man who despised unpredictability, who lived in a world where control was everything.
Which meant people like her—unaccounted variables, anomalies—were the things he hated most.
She had felt the weight of his suspicion for weeks now, the way he watched her more closely than anyone else, as if waiting for the moment she slipped.
But she wouldn't.
Not tonight.
She began moving toward him, weaving through the clusters of guests with fluid ease. A few people attempted to engage her in conversation, but she brushed them off with warm apologies, her sights locked on her target.
Draco was speaking with Claus now, their exchange quiet but charged. Claus's usual carefree demeanor was absent, replaced by something more serious. Whatever they were discussing, it wasn't idle chatter.
[Interesting.]
She slowed her pace, calculating the perfect moment to insert herself into the conversation. Timing was everything. Too soon, and it would seem intrusive. Too late, and she might miss a crucial opportunity.
Just as Claus turned to leave, she stepped forward, slipping seamlessly into the space he left behind.
Her smile was bright, effortlessly warm. "Draco," she greeted, her voice soft, pleasant—just the right balance of familiarity and respect. "I've been meaning to catch up with you all evening."
His gaze snapped to hers, sharp as a blade. For the briefest moment, something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or something deeper. But it was gone before she could dissect it, replaced by a polite, unreadable smile.
"Serena," he acknowledged, his voice smooth but lacking warmth. "Enjoying the gala?"
[Careful, Seventeen,] she reminded herself, keeping her expression open, inviting.
This was the real game now.
And she refused to lose.
The music swelled around them, a delicate symphony of strings and piano, underscoring the unspoken tension in the space between their words. Chandeliers bathed the ballroom in warm, golden light, casting elongated shadows that flickered like ghosts across the marble floors. Laughter and conversation filled the air, a carefully orchestrated masquerade of civility, but here—between them—it was something else entirely.
"I am! It's all so much grander than I imagined," Seventeen said, her voice laced with the perfect blend of awe and sincerity.
She allowed herself a small, breathy laugh, tilting her head slightly, leaning in just enough to create the illusion of intimacy. As if sharing a secret meant for only him. "Though, to be honest, I feel a little out of place. I'm not used to such... extravagance."
Draco's eyes narrowed—a small shift, barely perceptible, but enough for her to catch.
[He's still suspicious.] The thought sent a thrill through her veins. Good. Suspicion kept him watching. Suspicion meant he was thinking about her, analyzing her. Let him chase ghosts and shadows—let him waste his time searching for something she would never let him see.
"You don't seem out of place," he said smoothly, his tone neutral, carefully measured. "In fact, you fit in rather well."
[Of course, I do. Imagine if he knew why.]
Her outward response, however, was a modest smile, the picture of demure humility. "That's kind of you to say. I suppose I've just been lucky to meet such wonderful people."
He didn't answer right away. His gaze lingered, searching, dissecting her with the same relentless scrutiny that had plagued her since their first encounter. It was the same look a predator gave when it wasn't quite sure whether its prey was harmless—or something much more dangerous.
[Keep looking, Draco.]
She let the silence stretch, unbothered by the weight of it. Instead, she shifted the conversation, steering them into calmer waters before he could dig too deep.
"I've been meaning to ask you about your district," she said, her tone light, curious. "Libra is so fascinating to me—the balance, the justice. You must be proud of all your family has accomplished."
A test. A lure.
Draco's expression remained unreadable, but something in his stance tightened. "Pride is a complicated thing in Whiteland," he said at last. "Justice isn't always what it appears to be."
Intriguing.
[So there is more beneath the surface,] she mused, the edge of her curiosity sharpening.
Still, she couldn't push too hard. Not yet.
"I suppose that's true everywhere," she replied, a thoughtful note weaving into her voice. She let her gaze drift, as if lost in memories. "Even in the hospital, it's never as simple as helping people. There's always… more to consider."
A carefully placed pause. Just enough time to let the weight of her words settle.
His reaction was subtle—a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, a glance toward the crowd before his attention returned to her.
Then, his voice, low and steady. "And what is it that you consider, Serena?"
Not if she considered, but what. A small but deliberate shift in wording that revealed just how deep his suspicions ran.
"What is your real purpose here?"
A direct hit. No pretense. No polite sidestepping.
It was almost admirable.
Almost.
But Seventeen had anticipated this. Draco was too intelligent to fall for simple pleasantries and effortless charm. If he couldn't find cracks in her story, he would force them open himself.
So, she let out a small breath—just a whisper of hesitation, as if caught off guard. Then, she softened, letting something unguarded slip into her expression, a quiet sort of vulnerability.
"I suppose I'm still figuring that out," she said, voice contemplative, as if she were mulling over the truth in real time. "I came here because I wanted to help, to be part of something bigger. But now that I'm here… I'm realizing there's so much more at play."
She met his gaze, steady but not challenging. Open, but not too open. "It's overwhelming at times. But I want to understand."
Another beat of silence.
He was watching her again, eyes sharp, calculating.
She held still. Unwavering.
Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.
"Be careful what you wish for."
The words settled between them, deceptively simple but carrying a weight she could feel pressing against her ribs. A warning, maybe. A test.
Or a challenge.
[I never wish for anything,] she thought. [I take it.]
But instead of voicing it, she smiled. Soft. Determined. Just as calculated as everything else.
"I'll keep that in mind," she murmured, inclining her head ever so slightly. "Thank you for the advice."
The ballroom seemed to still as the orchestra struck the first notes of the evening's formal dance, the rich melody weaving through the air like a spell. A shift rippled through the crowd—conversations hushed, eyes turned toward the growing number of couples moving onto the floor. It was a tradition, a spectacle, a performance in itself.
Draco's gaze flickered toward the dancers, his expression unreadable. Seventeen saw the hesitation in his stance, the way his fingers flexed at his side as if weighing his next move. She knew she had a small window, a brief moment to act before he withdrew into his usual guarded solitude.
She stepped forward smoothly, closing the distance between them just enough for it to feel intentional but not intimate. With an effortless smile, she extended her hand. "Would you care to dance?"
A calculated move. Bold, perhaps. But necessary.
For a beat, Draco didn't move. His emerald eyes darkened, his jaw tightening just slightly as he considered her. The hesitation wasn't lost on her, but she held her ground, her expression warm and patient, as if she hadn't just thrown him a challenge in front of an entire room of watchful aristocrats.
Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose, a sound so soft she might have missed it had she not been watching him so closely. With a measured nod, he took her hand.
His grip was firm, steady, and impossibly warm.
As he led her onto the dance floor, the hum of whispered speculation followed them like a shadow. Seventeen could feel the weight of a hundred curious eyes, the unspoken questions buzzing in the air. She didn't let it faze her. She merely tilted her chin up slightly, stepping into the role she had so carefully constructed.
Draco placed a hand at her waist, his touch neither hesitant nor lingering—simply precise. She rested her free hand against his shoulder, allowing herself a moment to appreciate the sheer control in his posture.
The first steps were effortless, their movements syncing almost instinctively. He was better at this than she had expected—graceful, precise, a partner who led with confidence but not dominance.
She met his gaze as they twirled across the floor, a playful smile curving her lips. "You're surprisingly good at this," she mused, her voice just loud enough for him to hear. "I wouldn't have pegged you as someone who enjoys dancing."
Draco's lips twitched, a flicker of amusement passing through his otherwise unreadable expression. "There are many things you don't know about me, Serena."
["More than you realize,"] Seventeen thought, but outwardly, she only let out a soft laugh, tilting her head in feigned curiosity.
"Well, I look forward to learning more," she replied lightly. "That is, if you're willing to share."
Draco didn't respond right away. His gaze lingered on her, intense in a way that made it clear he was weighing every word, every intention. Their movements remained fluid, effortless, but there was an undercurrent to this dance that had nothing to do with the music—a subtle battle of power, of control, of questions left unspoken.
As the melody reached its final swell, Draco's fingers pressed just slightly against her waist, guiding her through the last turn. Then, as the music slowed and the dance neared its end, he finally spoke, his voice lower, edged with something unspoken.
"I think you'll find that some secrets are better left buried."
The words sent a slow, deliberate shiver down her spine, but she didn't let it show. Instead, she met his gaze with an unwavering smile, her voice as light as ever.
"We'll see."
And just like that, the dance was over. But the game was only beginning.