Queen Charlotte did not believe in coincidence. She believed in design. From her throne, she observed the ballroom as a general might survey a battlefield-every movement calculated, every whisper a weapon, every marriage a maneuver. The ton believed themselves clever, believed love and scandal ruled the Season. They were wrong. Power did. That was why she had summoned her niece from across the sea. Princess Amara Charlotte Obeng stood now at the far end of the hall, her presence subtle yet unmistakable, like the hush before a storm. She wore no diamonds yet-only gold worked delicately against her dark skin, an echo of her homeland. Her posture was flawless, her expression serene, but Queen Charlotte knew better. Amara was brilliant. Observant. Dangerous. And across the room stood a man who had no idea his life was about to be dismantled. Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount Bridgerton, pillar of English nobility, champion of duty, enemy of love. Perfect. The Queen's lips curved, ever so slightly. Let the game begin

(8cc) It's her first senior-level international competition, and ever since arriving in the Paris, Sophia's anticipation for the Grand Prix Final has been building. The Grand Prix Final, while not an ISU Championship, holds a special place in the figure skating world- considering it to be the most important international competition in the first half of figure skating season by the Internal Skating Union. For Sophia, it's her first big stage, and she hopes to win some medals for her Canadian team. Little did she know, a little something along the lines of a certain Russian skater, will enter her life.