𝙘𝙚𝙙𝙖𝙧

1 - the ball of all balls

mayven scott decided she hated london within five minutes of arriving, but she would never admit it. her mother, bessie, was in high spirits, practically buzzing with delight as their carriage rattled over cobblestones that looked older than time itself. mayven sat stiffly, smoothing down the lavender silk of her ballgown while trying not to inhale the overpowering scent of her father's cologne. he'd doused himself in it as though he were a ham preparing for preservation.

"tonight is the night, mayven," bessie chirped, her southern accent cutting through the prim, gray london air like a rogue cannonball. "you're going to meet a duke, or an earl, or—good lord, maybe even a prince!"

"i'll settle for a viscount," her younger sister harriet said, poking her head out the window and earning a scolding from bessie.

mayven sighed, staring out at the gaslit streets. she already felt a headache brewing, not because of the ball but because her family had spent the entire journey from new york to london yammering about opportunity. they were here to prove themselves—whatever that meant. mayven wasn't interested in proving anything to anyone, least of all the crusty british aristocrats who were sure to look down on her loud, uncouth american ways.

"chin up, mayven," her father said, his drawl as thick as the cologne cloud surrounding him. "you're a scott. you'll dazzle 'em."

mayven doubted dazzling would be required, but she plastered on her most agreeable smile as their carriage pulled up to the duchess of carlyle's estate, which looked less like a house and more like a palace that had eaten another palace for breakfast. lights blazed from every window, and the air was alive with the buzz of london's elite, draped in diamonds and dripping with titles.

as they ascended the steps, mayven whispered to harriet, "if this gets unbearable, we fake an illness. maybe food poisoning."

"too risky," harriet whispered back. "we need something dramatic. i'll pretend to faint. you scream."

"not bad," mayven said. "but let's save it for when someone inevitably tells us we're too american."

-

inside, the ballroom was a scene straight out of a novel, all gilded chandeliers and champagne fountains. mayven almost allowed herself to be impressed, but then she remembered why they were here: to marry rich. bessie wasted no time steering her daughters toward eligible bachelors, but mayven had other plans.

"i need air," she said, slipping away before bessie could assign her a target.

ducking into a side corridor, she found herself in a quieter wing of the house, where the chatter of the party faded into a gentle hum. she exhaled, letting her shoulders relax for the first time all evening.

and then she saw him.

he was standing by a display case filled with priceless artifacts, his dark hair gleaming under the flickering light of a nearby candelabra. he wasn't dressed like the other men at the ball—his jacket was slightly rumpled, and his cravat looked as though it had been tied in a hurry. he was attractive in a way that suggested he knew it but didn't care, which was infuriatingly unfair.

"you're not supposed to be here," she said, startling herself as much as him.

he turned, his eyes sharp and dark as they took her in. "neither are you, i imagine."

mayven crossed her arms, ignoring the little flutter in her chest. "i was just looking for some air. what's your excuse?"

he smirked, and oh, it was an obnoxious smirk. "admiring the art."

"you were admiring the inside of that display case," she said, pointing to the slightly ajar glass door. "are you planning to steal something?"

he raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. "and if i was?"

mayven's stomach did a little flip. this was the most interesting thing to happen all night. "then i'd ask you how you got past the duchess's security. it's supposed to be impenetrable."

he tilted his head, studying her. "you're not going to scream for help?"

"should i?" she asked, leaning against the wall as though this were the most normal conversation in the world.

he laughed, low and soft, and it sent a shiver down her spine. "you're not like the others, are you?"

"if you mean i'm not as desperate to climb the social ladder as the rest of london, then no, i'm not."

he stepped closer, and she caught the faint scent of something warm and smoky—nothing like her father's cologne. "what's your name?"

"mayven scott," she said, lifting her chin. "what's yours?"

"guy thwarpe," he said, his voice a lazy drawl. "pleasure to meet you, miss scott."

before she could respond, he slipped something into her hand—a sapphire necklace, glittering under the candlelight.

"a gift," he said, winking before turning and disappearing down the corridor.

mayven stared after him, the necklace cool and heavy in her palm.

for the first time that night, she smiled.