Sae-byeok / Ho-Yeon Imagins

Forbidden... Perhaps (Sae-byeok) - Pt. 1

The ballroom is a performance of light—ribbons of gold pouring from every chandelier, flickering off the polished marble floor, illuminating silks and sapphires and skin. The air is thick with the scent of perfume and pride. Music spills in every direction like velvet smoke, muffling the quiet exhaustion hiding beneath every rehearsed smile.

I remain still at the edge of the room, the daughter of a throne that cages more than it crowns. The men are circling—most of them sons of dukes and earls, masked with charm, eager to offer a name in exchange for power. I smile when I must. I sip from my goblet. I nod, and I dance, and I endure.

But I don't see anyone until I see her.

She's across the room, half-obscured by a marble column, standing apart from the others like a rogue note in a perfect composition. She wears black. Not mourning black—rebellion black. Her dress doesn't shimmer. It clings. Her short hair is slicked back but already undone in places, soft strands curling at her ears. Her posture is unbothered, but her eyes—sharp, restless—cut through the crowd like she's searching for a reason to care.

When she looks up, her gaze snags mine like a hook.

I don't look away. I can't.

And for the first time that evening, I forget where I am.

She doesn't smile. Neither do I.

But something passes between us. A shift in the air. A soft, electric stillness.

Then she looks away. Purposefully. Like a warning.

I should take it.

I don't.

Instead, I move through the crowd—not toward her, not quite. Just... near. I tell myself I'm walking aimlessly. That it's coincidence. But we both know better.

A new song begins—slower, deliberate. The room tilts as the dancers pair off again. I hesitate, heart skimming my ribs like a bird trapped behind them. I've barely taken a step when a figure moves toward me, silent and sure.

She doesn't bow. She doesn't speak. Just extends a hand.

It's her.

Close now, I see the faint freckles dusted across her nose, the small scar just beneath her jaw, the defiant gleam beneath her quiet. She's beautiful in a way that feels dangerous to name aloud.

I stare at her hand for a breath too long. I hear my mother's voice in my head—Appearances. Obedience. Perception is everything.

But I take her hand anyway.

Her grip is steady. Her palm warm.

And we begin to dance.

Not like the others do—graceful but hollow, polished but empty. Ours is slower. Closer. Measured. Our movements are quiet rebellion. She leads with precision, and I follow like I've done it a thousand times in secret dreams.

Still, neither of us speaks. And somehow, in the silence, I learn more about her than I have about anyone else tonight.

She spins me once. Pulls me back. Our hands stay clasped longer than they should. Our eyes never break.

Finally, she leans in—so close I can feel her breath against my cheek.

"You don't belong here," she murmurs.

I inhale slowly. "Neither do you."

"Then why are we pretending?"

"Because we have to," I say. "Because if we don't, we lose everything."