The moment the killer stepped forward, Prince Alaric Varellion felt the atmosphere in the ballroom shift. The tension, once simmering beneath the surface, now threatened to suffocate the assembled nobility. The gaslight chandeliers cast flickering shadows across the polished floor, and the aristocrats' hushed whispers grew into a collective murmur of unease. Yet his golden eyes were not on them—they were fixed on Evelyne Thorne.
He had been watching her from the moment she knelt by the body. The way her sharp green eyes had roamed over every detail, calculating, assembling the pieces of a puzzle no one else could see. When she had first approached him that evening, requesting his approval to investigate, he had granted it with feigned nonchalance, though in truth, he had been intrigued. Evelyne was an enigma—one he found himself increasingly drawn to.
And now, as the truth began to unravel before them all, he could not look away.
The woman who stepped forward no longer wore the mask of a meek aristocrat. There was something raw in her gaze, something unhinged in the way her lips curled into a smile—wild and triumphant, despite the noose tightening around her. The nobles instinctively recoiled, their polished exteriors cracking under the weight of realization.
Alaric observed the way Evelyne stood before her, poised and unflinching, the only person in the room who seemed unaffected by the killer's sudden confession. Her voice, calm and precise, cut through the silence.
"How did you figure it out?" the woman asked, her voice laced with equal parts awe and resentment.
Alaric noted the way Evelyne tilted her head ever so slightly before answering. There was something almost theatrical about her manner—controlled, deliberate, as if she had already rehearsed this moment in her mind.
"Observation," Evelyne replied simply.
He could see it then, the moment the murderer's confidence wavered. The flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the tightening of her fingers against her skirts. Evelyne pressed forward, her words weaving an inescapable net around the woman.
"You were not meant to be here tonight," Evelyne continued, pacing slowly. "And yet, you blended in seamlessly. A borrowed dress, an invitation procured through means yet unknown."
Alaric admired her method—her ability to turn the woman's own presence into evidence. She spoke with certainty, drawing their audience deeper into her deductions, making them see the crime through her eyes. Even the most skeptical among them could not deny the sheer logic of her words.
"But it was not your presence alone that gave you away," Evelyne said, pausing just long enough for the suspense to build. "It was your absence."
The woman's fingers twitched. A tell.
Alaric's lips curled slightly. He had seen enough interrogations to recognize when a suspect was being led to their breaking point.
"When Lord Hawke's body was discovered, the entire room reacted. Some gasped, some turned away, some rushed forward. But you—you hesitated."
Evelyne took a slow step forward, her voice soft but merciless.
"That hesitation was not fear. It was calculation."
There. That was the moment. Alaric saw it clearly—the exact instant when the killer realized she had lost. Her breath hitched, her pupils dilated. She tried to mask it with a scoff, but the damage was done.
"And then, there was your reaction when his name was spoken. You flinched," Evelyne stated. "Only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough."
The silence in the ballroom stretched taut, thick with anticipation. Even the nobles, who so often indulged in gossip over substance, were hanging onto her every word. Alaric watched them as much as he watched Evelyne. It was fascinating—the way she commanded their attention with nothing but the weight of the truth.
The accused woman gave a choked laugh, her mask slipping completely. "You deduced an entire murder from a flinch?" she sneered. "That's absurd."
"No," Evelyne corrected, her voice unwavering. "I deduced it from the fact that you held your wine glass in your left hand."
Alaric felt the air shift again, the weight of inevitability pressing down on them all. The woman froze. Her mask of arrogance shattered in an instant, her expression betraying everything she had tried so desperately to conceal.
Evelyne exhaled slowly, her eyes never leaving the woman's face. "I know why you did it," she said, her tone quieter now, almost gentle. "I know what he did. And I don't blame you."
Alaric's gaze sharpened. There was something in those words—something more than mere deduction. Understanding. Empathy.
The woman's breath hitched. For the first time, true emotion flickered across her face. But it was too late. The guards stepped forward, their presence a reminder of the inescapable consequence of her actions.
She raised her hands slowly, in surrender. But there was no regret in her eyes. "Then arrest me, detective," she murmured. "But know this—Lord Hawke was never going to stop. And now, he never will."
Evelyne said nothing as the woman was led away, her figure soon swallowed by the opulence of the ballroom.
The nobles remained silent, processing what had just unfolded before them. Some whispered behind their fans, others simply stared at Evelyne with something bordering on fear and admiration.
Alaric let out a slow breath, finally stepping forward.
"You never cease to surprise me, Lady Evelyne," he murmured.
She turned to him then, her sharp green eyes meeting his golden ones. He could see it—the exhaustion lurking beneath the surface, the weight of what she had just done pressing against her shoulders.
But she did not waver.
Evelyne Thorne was not like the others. And that, more than anything, intrigued him the most.