Irabel
Dance with me.
Such a simple request, yet, it splintered Irabel's world. Her chest tightened, her throat closed, grief pressing in—thick, suffocating. She had kept the memories at bay, lived in the moment, refused to drown in the ache this ball threatened to stir. But those three words tore through her armour, and everything spilled out.
"Dance with me, sweetheart."
Her father's voice echoed.
Tears pooled.
Finally, finally everything stung.
The music. The food. The laughter. Every detail scraped against her like glass, each one a painful reminder of home.
Except the company.
They were not here.
Her mother wasn't playing hostess.
Her father wasn't booming about Belmont or bragging about his sweet princess, the future queen.
Here there was admiration, yes, but not like
