Page 45 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

T he music swells as the ball begins, a shimmering waltz played by a small orchestra nestled in the corner of the grand hall.

Candles flicker from chandeliers overhead, casting golden light across the polished marble floor.

Every surface gleams; every corner is adorned with fresh flowers, their perfume mingling with the scent of spiced wine and honeyed cakes.

At the foot of the staircase, Dorian turns to Selene. His gaze sweeps over her gown—deep indigo velvet, embroidered with delicate silver stars. The mask she wears is edged in obsidian, matching the dark satin of her gloves.

“You look like the night sky,” he murmurs.

Heat rises in her cheeks, but she manages a playful smile. “ Then try not to get lost in me.”

His lips quirk, but his eyes are serious. “That’s a dangerous thing to ask.”

She swallows. They are supposed to be playing a part tonight—gracious hosts, a powerful union, a couple untouchable in their ease and charm. But Dorian is making it difficult to remember which parts are pretense and which are real.

At least, which bits are a pretense to him.

It’s all been real to her for a long while now. Soon, hopefully, she’ll find the strength to tell him.

But not tonight.

They receive Lord Fairmont first and the rest of his household. He greets Dorian with the warmth of an old friend, clasping his shoulder before turning to Selene with an extravagant bow. “Lady Nightbloom, you are a vision.”

She curtsies, her mask hiding her bemused expression. “You flatter me, my lord.”

He grins. “Ah, but it’s not flattery if it’s the truth, is it?”

More guests follow. Ophelia arrives with her husband, her gown a flowing cascade of blush-pink, her mask adorned with delicate pearls. She embraces Selene tightly. “I’ve missed you,” she whispers.

Selene squeezes her hand. “You’ve only been married a month, and already you tire of wedded bliss?”

“Hardly,” Ophelia says with a sly smile. “But I miss having you to gossip with.”

Selene laughs, but then—

A hush spreads at the entrance.

Lord and Lady Duskbriar have arrived.

Her mother is resplendent in deep green silk, her father in sombre black. Her mother’s lips press into a thin line as she studies Selene’s gown, and she nods once, approvingly but without warmth. Her father barely spares her a glance before turning to Dorian .

“Lord Nightbloom.” His voice is as flat as ever.

“Lord Duskbriar,” Dorian replies, measured, polite.

They exchange stiff pleasantries before moving past, vanishing into the crowd.

Selene releases a breath, taking a moment to steady herself.

And then—

Duke Drakefell arrives.

His presence is like a chill in the air, creeping in through the candlelight. His mask is simple, black and edged in silver, but there is no mistaking the shape of his mouth as he smirks at her. “Lady Nightbloom,” he drawls, bowing low. “I must say, you host a magnificent ball.”

Selene forces a smile. “You honour us with your presence, Your Grace.”

He straightens, his gaze flickering between her and Dorian. Assessing. Calculating. He gives a curt nod, and vanishes into the crowd.

Selene barely breathes until he’s gone.

For now, everything is going well. The music drifts through the hall, a waltz that seems to shimmer through the air like spun glass.

Laughter ripples over the clink of champagne flutes, over murmured conversation, over the rustle of silk and velvet as dancers swirl across the floor.

Candles flicker in their sconces, their golden glow softening the sharp edges of masks, turning strangers into something almost dreamlike.

Selene moves through the crowd, pausing here and there, exchanging pleasantries, keeping a careful balance between charm and distance.

She ensures she speaks with everyone—the nobles lingering at the wine tables, the merchants hovering near the pillars, even the young debutantes pretending not to watch her too closely.

She is keenly aware that this ball has made her a curiosity. A spectacle .

But that is precisely what she intended.

Still, despite her careful attention to the room, her gaze flickers too often to find Dorian.

Sometimes he is across the hall, engaged in quiet conversation with one of his marks.

Other times he is laughing—laughing—with Ophelia’s husband.

She tells herself she is being ridiculous, but the unease gnaws at her anyway.

She turns, and—

“Don’t worry.”

A familiar voice at her shoulder, like Dorian’s and not.

She glances up to find Soren watching her through his mask, the silver embroidery catching the candlelight.

He is dressed like a shadow, all black with only the faintest glint of steel at his cuffs.

His mask is as dark as midnight, and for a moment, he looks like something out of a story—some nameless figure who has slipped between the veil of reality and myth.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” he says.

Selene exhales, half-laughing despite herself. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to those who know you.” Soren tilts his head slightly, following her gaze across the room. “You’re worried about him.”

She doesn’t answer.

Soren hums. “You don’t have to say it. I already know.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t need you watching over him.”

“No,” he agrees. “But you’ll feel better if I do.”

She doesn’t want to admit how right he is.

Soren pats her arm like he’s comforting a nervous horse. “Relax, Selene. It’s a party. Enjoy yourself while you can.”

He slips away before she can protest, melting into the crowd as smoothly as smoke through an open door.

Selene watches him go, then turns back to the ball. She lifts a glass of wine from a passing tray, taking a slow sip.

The night is still young .

Dorian appears at her side, effortlessly cutting through the crowd. His mask is sharp-edged and silver, like the sliver of a crescent moon against the dark sweep of his suit. He inclines his head, offering his hand.

“Dance with me.”

Selene smiles.

Dorian leads her onto the floor as the music slows, pulling her into position. His palm is warm against hers, the other resting just below her shoulder blade, guiding her effortlessly through the first few steps.

“You’re magnificent,” he murmurs, his breath brushing the shell of her ear.

Selene swallows. “So are you.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

Selene takes her hand from his shoulder and glides it against his chin. “There is more than one way to be magnificent, my darling.”

Dorian’s throat bobs, but his gaze remains steady. Watching her. Seeing her.

They move through the steps with effortless grace, their bodies a seamless rhythm, like waves meeting the shore. Around them, masked faces blur and swirl, laughter and music weaving through the grand hall. The candlelight turns Dorian’s hair to something molten.

He leans in slightly, just enough that only she can hear him. “Do you think we’ve fooled everyone?”

Selene exhales a quiet laugh. “Fooled them?”

“Do you think they believe how madly in love we are?” His voice is low, teasing, but there is something beneath it, something she can’t quite name.

Her pulse jumps.

She is about to answer when—

The trumpets sound .

A sharp, bright blast that cuts through the music like a blade, silencing conversation, turning every masked face toward the grand entrance.

The air shifts. The weight of the room tilts.

The King has arrived.

Selene stiffens. Dorian’s grip on her waist tightens, just slightly, just enough that she feels it.

King Alden II of Haverland steps inside the ballroom.

He is dressed in deep crimson, a striking contrast to the rich gold embroidery that lines his doublet and the mask of lacquered black that hides half his face.

Even masked, there is no mistaking him. He carries himself with the unshakable ease of someone who has never needed to question his authority.

A ripple moves through the crowd—surprise, awe, wariness. No one expected him to attend. Invitations to royalty were often more a formality than an actual expectation, and yet, here he is, stepping into Ebonrose Hall, his dark eyes sweeping across the ballroom.

Selene curtsies. Dorian bows.

“Your Majesty,” Dorian says smoothly.

Alden smiles, sharp but not unkind. “Lord Nightbloom. Lady Nightbloom.”

His gaze lingers on Selene, and when she straightens, there is a glint of recognition in his expression.

“It has been some time, hasn’t it, Selene?”

The sound of her name—her first name, unadorned by title or expectation—sends a strange shiver through her. He speaks as if they are old friends.

“Quite some time, Your Majesty,” she replies, careful but polite.

She has met him before, of course. He attended some of her parents’ gatherings, here and there.

She’d attended a ball at the palace almost a year ago.

He had always seemed more amused by court than enthralled by it, watching the social games as though they were a play performed for his entertainment.

King Alden’s gaze flicks briefly to Dorian before returning to her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “May I steal the lady for a dance?”

Dorian hesitates. It’s the barest pause, but Selene feels it. She can sense the reluctance in the way his fingers twitch at his sides. But what choice does he have? The King does not make requests .

“Of course,” Dorian says, his voice perfectly even. “It would be an honour.”

Alden grins as he extends a hand toward Selene. “Shall we?”

The music begins again. Selene takes his hand.

The music swells as Selene and King Alden take their places on the dance floor. His hold is steady, practiced. He moves like someone who has never had to doubt himself, never had to second-guess a single step.

“I must admit,” King Alden muses, “your sudden marriage caused quite the stir. Your father, especially—poor Lord Duskbriar was utterly devastated. He had such plans for you, you know.”

Selene bites back the sharp retort on her tongue. She doubts he has a heart to break.