The grand ballroom was ablaze with golden light, the chandeliers casting intricate patterns across the polished marble floor. The music swelled in the air, weaving a spell of elegance and grandeur, as finely dressed guests twirled in perfect synchrony. Laughter and polite conversation floated between sips of champagne, the scent of roses and expensive perfume mingling in the atmosphere.
Jane Valeran sat alone in the farthest corner of the hall, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her dress.
Her dress was soft gold, simple yet delicate. In a different setting, it might have looked beautiful, but here—amidst the dazzling satins, velvets, and silks of the wealthiest families—it seemed out of place, like a wilted flower in a bed of perfectly curated roses. The other girls wore diamonds in their hair, shimmering necklaces resting against flawless porcelain skin. Jane, in contrast, had no jewelry, no embellishments, nothing to make her stand out.
She had come here with a purpose.
Because he had told her, "Tonight, I'll be waiting for you."
She held onto those words like a fragile dream, one that threatened to shatter under the weight of reality.
She could hear them whispering.
They weren't trying to hide it.
"Why is she even here?"
"Did she seriously think someone would ask her to dance?"
"Oh my god, is she actually waiting for Edgar?"
Laughter rippled through the room, hushed but vicious.
Jane lowered her gaze to her lap, fingers twisting in the folds of her dress. Her throat felt tight, but she refused to cry. Not here. Not in front of them.
Instead, her mind drifted back to a memory—one she had tried to bury deep but could never quite forget.
Her grandmother's room had always smelled faintly of dried herbs and old books. The wooden walls creaked with every gust of wind, the single oil lamp by the bedside flickering weakly.
That night, Jane had been kneeling beside the bed, her small hands clutching the frail, wrinkled fingers of the only person who had ever truly loved her.
"I don't want to go, Grandma," she had pleaded, her voice thick with tears. "I can stay here. I can take care of you. Just let me stay..."
The old woman had smiled—a weary, knowing smile.
"My Jane," she murmured, her voice as fragile as autumn leaves rustling in the wind. "You are brilliant. Smarter than them all. But intelligence means nothing when the world refuses to be kind."
Jane had shaken her head furiously. "I don't care about them!"
Her grandmother exhaled softly, brushing a trembling hand through Jane's hair.
"You must go," she said gently. "Because I won't be here much longer."
Jane had choked back a sob, clutching her grandmother's hand tighter.
"No matter how they treat you," the old woman whispered, "never let them turn your heart to stone."
The memory lingered, wrapping around her like a ghostly embrace.
Even now, she could hear her grandmother's voice. Smarter than them all. But intelligence means nothing when the world refuses to be kind.
She had tried to prove that wrong.
She had worked harder than anyone, scoring perfect marks in every subject, proving time and time again that she was more than the girl with the cursed birthmark.
But none of it mattered. Not to them.
Because no matter how hard she worked, how perfect her scores were, they would always see her as that girl.
The cursed one.
The unwanted one.
A sudden burst of laughter pulled her back to the present.
Victoria Windsor was walking toward her, the crimson silk of her dress rippling like a bloodstained tide. She was beautiful—impossibly so—with perfect curls framing her flawless face, every step she took oozing confidence.
"You actually showed up?" Victoria's lips curled into a mockery of a smile. "Wow. That's bold."
Jane tensed but said nothing.
Victoria's gaze flickered down to her dress, amusement dancing in her eyes.
"Did you really think someone was going to ask you to dance?" she mused.
The crowd around them snickered.
"She must be waiting for Edgar."
"Oh god, that's adorable. Like a beggar waiting for a feast."
Jane felt the blood rush to her cheeks.
She knew better than to react, to give them the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
But Victoria wasn't done.
She leaned down slightly, lowering her voice to a whisper.
"If I were you," she murmured, "I'd find somewhere to hide before this gets any more humiliating."
Jane clenched her fists beneath the table.
She wanted to fire back some sharp, cutting remark.
She wanted to stand up and walk away with her head held high.
But before she could do anything—
A hand extended in front of her.
The entire ballroom fell silent.
Gasps rippled through the crowd as all eyes turned toward the owner of that hand.
Golden-brown hair, a lazy, effortless smirk, and eyes that held just a hint of something unreadable. His suit was perfectly tailored, though his collar was slightly loosened in a way that made him look both refined and untamed.
"Victoria," Edgar Howard said smoothly, "since when did you start deciding who gets to sit where?"
Victoria's expression froze.
"Edgar, you must be joking."
He didn't look at her.
Instead, his gaze remained fixed on Jane.
"Jane," he said her name slowly, deliberately. Then, with an easy smile, "Would you do me the honor of a dance?"
Jane's breath caught in her throat.
She stared at his outstretched hand, her pulse pounding in her ears.
This wasn't real.
It couldn't be real.
And yet—
She lifted her hand and placed it in his.
Edgar's fingers curled around hers, warm and steady.
As he led her onto the dance floor, the whispers around them grew louder, blending into the melody of the orchestra.
Victoria stood frozen, her lips slightly parted, her face an unreadable mask.
Jane didn't turn back to look.
She focused on Edgar instead, on the warmth of his touch, on the way he held her as they moved into the center of the ballroom.
It felt surreal. Like a scene from one of the fairytales she had always dreamed of.
But it happened!