The camera panned to the faces of the nobility and dignitaries invited to the Victor’s Ball as they applauded the pronouncement of the queen. However, while the cameras were focused elsewhere, a pair of servants approached the royal family. Each carried a silver tray with half-filled wine glasses. One by one, the royalties secure for themselves a wine glass. 

“And so,” her royal highness continued, now holding a glass of wine. As she spoke the camera turned its attention back to her. “Please join me in congratulating Ms. Rhiane Black, a woman who despite being of common birth, possessed exceptional beauty, intellect, skills, and grace worthy of the crown.” She paused to glance at Rhiane with a kind smile before she raised her glass. “May she inspire those of us who dream, to dream for the stars. More importantly, may she bear beautiful and healthy princes and princesses.”

The noble guests laughed, raised their glasses and drank their wine in honor of Rhiane Black, the princess-elect, the future queen. 

Luke did the same, longing for more of the bittersweet Ibourg Blanc, one of the most expensive alcohol to ever exist in the post-war era, to accompany him throughout the night. Actually, any alcoholic drink would do just fine so long as it got him drunk enough to forget the humiliation. None of the members of high society would speak against the tradition of the selection of the heir’s future spouse, but he could read faint, almost indiscernible hints of disapproval from these people. No one in his right mind would even consider associating themselves with a commoner, unless absolutely necessary. It was even considered scandalous to have an affair with somebody outside the nobility, but now he, the rightful heir to the throne, was about to very publicly marry one.

“Shall we begin the celebration?” Queen Camilla’s voice cut through his train of thoughts. He watched how with a gesture of the queen’s hand, the orchestra started playing a fusion of classical and modern music. The beat was slow and the melody sweet. Luke tensed. “I’ll let my son and his fiancée lead this dance.”

He knew it was coming. Calista nodded at her brother with a smile, probably knowing how the prince would react, though he barely noticed her. Instead, with a smile on his face, Luke turned to their mother. But it was through gritted teeth that he said, “This is too much. Do I really have to?”

“It is your duty, Lucius.” It was Prince Damien who, in a gentle voice, answered for the queen. He moved to the side of the queen, offering his arm. Camilla nodded as if to thank her husband. The couple walked towards the staircase framing the royals’ private balcony. “Go on, the cameras are waiting,” added the older prince.

Without a word, Luke led Rhiane to the center of the dance floor a bit more hasty than normal. He might have dragged her, but he couldn’t care at that moment. All he could think of was how much he wanted the night to end. When they reached the center, he faced her, and maybe for the first time looked her in the eye. The eye contact was brief as Luke was too quick to bow. After the ceremonial bow, he took her hand and twirled her around in time with the beat of the orchestra. 

It was precisely because of occasions like the Victor’s Ball that dancing became a mandatory skill that princes and princesses should learn. Luke was good at it, not better than any of his younger brothers, but decent at least. Then he remembered he was not dancing with a princess. “Can you dance? I mean this kind of dance?” Not sure how she would answer, he slowed down and placed one arm around her waist. 

Somebody gasped audibly at the gesture. 

Nevertheless, he pulled her close so that they don’t have to make big movements but still pretend to be dancing by swaying in time with music. He recalled what she said before they stepped out of the waiting room, that it was the first time that she wore heels. Ms. Rhiane Black did not belong to his world, just like he did not belong to hers. She was a farmer and he was a prince. She was born to till the land, while he was born to rule those who till the land. When he became king, he swore to himself that the stupid breeding ritual would be the first law that he would abolish. None of his descendants should ever suffer the humiliation. 

“Listen, Ms. Rhiane Black,” he whispered. By that time, couples were already on the dance floor to join them while more cocktail drinks and food were being served to the guests. “I suppose you understand your role in this charade. You have value for this family until you produce healthy grandchildren for the queen. After she is satisfied, you are dispensable. That may take years, unfortunately. Years that we will be forced to spend together. It will be beneficial to both of us if you will stick to your intended purpose and not mind any of my business as I will not mind yours. It should be a simple enough rule.”