But winning shouldn't feel like this.
I needed air.
I needed to get out of this room before I shattered in front of three hundred witnesses and proved Victoria Marchetti right.
I murmured excuses to Dante and the other people around me—powder room, just need a moment, I'll be right back—and turned toward the nearest exit. My heels clicked too loud against the marble floor. My heart pounded too hard against my ribs.
I found a door. Pushed through it. Didn't stop until I reached a small sitting room with windows overlooking the city lights and blessed, empty silence.
The door clicked shut behind me.
And I finally let myself fall apart.
Thewindowwascoldagainst my palms.
I pressed harder, letting the chill seep through my skin, trying to anchor myself to something solid.
My shoulders shook. I couldn't stop them.
The champagne sat abandoned on a side table behind me, condensation beading on the crystal. I couldn't remembersetting it down. Couldn't remember crossing the room. Couldn't remember anything between the door clicking shut and this moment—hands flat against cold glass, breath fogging in small desperate bursts, the emerald silk of my dress suddenly too tight around my ribs.
I was fine. I was always fine. I just needed a moment to—
The door opened.
I didn't turn. "I'm fine. Just needed a moment. I'll be back out in—"
"Look at me."
Dante's voice was gentle. But it was still a command.
My body responded before my mind could catch up. I turned—some automatic compliance built into my bones, trained by years of obeying men who expected obedience—and found him standing just inside the doorway. The ballroom light spilled in behind him, catching the sharp angles of his face, the rigid set of his shoulders.
His expression made my chest crack open.
He was looking at me like I was something precious that had been dropped. Like he wanted to gather up the pieces and put them back together himself, if only I'd let him.
I couldn't let him. I couldn't let anyone.
But the composure I'd been clutching like a lifeline was crumbling, and I couldn't seem to make it stop. Tears burned behind my eyes—the ones I'd been fighting since Victoria's words landed—and I was furious with myself for breaking. Furious for being this weak. Furious for proving that underneath all the armor, I was exactly as fragile as everyone assumed.
He crossed the room in three strides.
His hands found mine—still pressed against the window, still trembling—and wrapped around them. Warm. Steady. The calluses on his palms rough against my fingers.
"You don't have to perform for me."
The words hit something raw.
"I don't know how to do anything else." My voice came out cracked. Wrong. The voice of a woman who had spent too long pretending and finally run out of strength to maintain the lie.
He pulled my hands from the glass, held them between us. His thumbs traced circles against my palms—small, steady movements that somehow made breathing easier.
"That woman—she doesn't matter. What she said—"
"I know." The words scraped past the tightness in my throat. "I know it doesn't matter. I know I handled it. I know I won."
His brow furrowed slightly. That crease between his eyes I'd learned to recognize, the one that meant he was trying to understand something that didn't quite make sense.
