The adventure of a modern day detective turned aristocrat

The ballroom was a maze of silk and secrets, a gilded cage filled with predators draped in jewels. Evelyne Thorne navigated through it with ease, her steps light, her presence unobtrusive but deliberate.

Her eyes scanned the sea of nobles, searching for those who had once been closest to Rosalind Sinclair. Her memories—Evelyne's memories—guided her like a well-worn map, allowing her to slip into conversations with a familiarity she had not earned.

Furthermore, her first target was Baroness Genevieve Rosendale, a woman in her early fifties, her hair powdered a ghostly white and her lips painted a scandalous shade of red. She had hosted Rosalind numerous times for afternoon teas, Evelyne recalled.

"Lady Thorne," the baroness greeted, her voice syrupy and sweet. "I must say, I did not expect to see you gracing such events again."

Evelyne smiled, feigning innocence. "The rumors of my demise were greatly exaggerated."

A few chuckles rippled around them, but Genevieve's sharp gaze remained locked onto her, searching for weaknesses. Evelyne pressed on.

"I was just reminiscing about old acquaintances," she said, swirling the champagne in her glass. "Lady Sinclair, for instance. Such a presence she had. It's strange, isn't it? How she has not been seen for weeks?"

A flicker of something crossed the baroness's face. Guilt? Fear? Evelyne couldn't tell.

"Oh, you know how these things go," Genevieve waved a hand dismissively. "Young women get caught up in affairs of the heart, perhaps she eloped."

"Without a word?" Evelyne's lips quirked into a skeptical smile. "That doesn't sound like her."

The baroness opened her mouth to retort, but another noble, Viscountess Lillian Montrose, swept in, dragging Evelyne's attention away.

"You're awfully invested in Lady Sinclair's affairs, Lady Thorne," Lillian said, her tone edged with condescension. "One might think you had nothing better to do."

Another noble joined in, a tall, sneering gentleman Evelyne recognized as Lord Cassius Durnham, a notorious gossip.

"Perhaps she thinks solving the mystery will elevate her crumbling family name," he mused, voice dripping with mockery. "A fallen noble trying to act relevant. How tragic."

Evelyne did not falter. Instead, she smiled—a slow, knowing smile that made Cassius shift uncomfortably.

"Oh, but Lord Durnham," she said, voice as light as silk, "I find it far more tragic that a man of your particular habits dares to mock anyone's reputation."

His smirk wavered.

"You should be careful, my lord," Evelyne added, her eyes gleaming like a cat's. "I hear whispers travel fast in the capital."

Cassius stiffened, but before he could retort, a noblewoman let out a quiet giggle behind her fan. Others exchanged glances, amusement flickering in their eyes.

Evelyne took a sip of her drink and turned away, victorious.

As she continued weaving her way through the ballroom, Evelyne's sharp gaze caught on someone unusual.

A woman, standing near the periphery of the room, dressed in a gown that seemed too perfect. The cut was correct, the embroidery exquisite, but something was off.

Her posture—too stiff. Her hands—clasped too tightly. Her eyes—darting, as if looking for an escape.

She doesn't belong.

Evelyne's instincts screamed at her to investigate. But Rosalind came first.

For now, she let the woman slip into the crowd.

Prince Alaric Varellion's Perspective

From the grand balcony above, Prince Alaric Varellion watched Evelyne Thorne with an intensity hidden behind a mask of detached amusement.

He had danced with her tonight. Held her in his arms. Looked into those emerald-green eyes and seen—

Something different.

The Evelyne Thorne he knew had been meek, forgettable. A noble's daughter with a tarnished name and no ambition beyond survival.

But this new Evelyne?

Sharp. Amused. Dangerous.

He had seen how she handled insults like a fencer deflecting blades, how she extracted information with the grace of a courtier but the precision of a hunter.

She played the game well.

And Alaric had spent his entire life surrounded by people who played the game.

Below him, his brothers moved through the ballroom, each one an opponent in the ongoing war for the throne. Their mere presence reminded him of the danger that lurked beneath the empire's glittering façade.

And now—Evelyne Thorne had become a piece in this deadly game.

Whether she realized it or not.

Murder in the Ballroom

Evelyne had gathered pieces of information—small, scattered clues that hinted at a deeper conspiracy. But she needed time. She needed quiet. She needed—

A scream.

The music stopped. The laughter died.

Silence swallowed the ballroom, thick with tension.

Then—

The gasps. The scrambling. The chaos.

Evelyne turned sharply, her heart hammering. Across the ballroom, nobles had begun to step back, forming a widening circle.

A body lay sprawled on the marble floor.

The air was thick with perfume, wine, and the metallic tang of blood.

A noblewoman clutched her throat, her face drained of color. "M-Murder—!"

The word sent ripples of horror through the crowd.

Evelyne's breath hitched.

Murder.

Right in the middle of the imperial ballroom.

She barely had time to process before a commanding voice cut through the chaos—

"No one leaves."

The room fell deathly silent as Prince Alaric Varellion descended from the balcony, golden eyes sharp as a blade.

His presence alone commanded obedience.

"No one leaves," he repeated, his voice smooth but edged with quiet authority. "Until we find out exactly who among us is a murderer."

Evelyne felt her pulse race.

If she wanted to investigate, if she wanted to uncover the truth—

She had no choice but to get close to the prince.