Chapter 122

Iris

“Keep your chin up and shoulders back, Miss Willford! And one-two-three, one-two-three. No, no, no! You’re leading again!”

I bite back a frustrated groan as Madame Laurent, the ancient dance instructor my parents hired for me, stops the music for what feels like the hundredth time in the past hour. Her thin lips press together with obvious disappointment as she circles Arthur and me, prodding at my shoulders, neck, and arms with her knotted old fingers.

Madame Laurent is apparently one of the most prestigious ballroom dance instructors in Ordan. The crème de la crème.

She’s also a fucking drill sergeant.

“The waltz is the backbone of high society,” she barks. “It’s not just a dance—it is a statement. And right now, you are making a very poor statement indeed.”

My cheeks burn with embarrassment. It’s been three weeks since I met my parents, and every day since then has been filled with some kind of training—etiquette lessons, political history tutoring, fashion consultations, and now, dancing.

Oh, the joy.

“I’m trying,” I mutter, wiping my sweaty palms against my skirt, which is heavy, cumbersome, and wide—practice for the ballgown I’ll be wearing for my debut.

“Trying is not good enough,” Madame Laurent snaps. “The Willford Ball is in two weeks. In two weeks, you will be presented to the world as the lost heir. And the dance—” she makes a dramatic gesture with her bony hands, “—the dance is the centerpiece of that presentation!”

She’s right, of course. Apparently, Willford tradition states that every heir must perform a dance at their public debut. It’s highly anticipated, and failure is seen as a bad omen. Back in the olden days, it was believed that if an heir couldn’t properly execute the footwork, then they would trod all over the family name in the same way. Or something like that.

I don’t think my parents actually believe that now. But this dance is still very important.

Arthur, who has been surprisingly patient through all of this, gives my hand a small squeeze. “Perhaps we should take a short break,” he suggests.

Madame Laurent looks like he just pissed on her shoe, but even she seems to recognize that the Alpha President won’t take no for an answer. “Very well. Five minutes,” she relents with a huff, stalking across the marble floor toward the stereo system.

Once she’s out of earshot, I let my head drop against Arthur’s chest. “I can’t do this,” I whisper. “I’m going to humiliate myself in front of everyone. Again.”

“You won’t,” he says, his hand rubbing small circles on my back. “You’re just overthinking it.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve probably been dancing at fancy balls since you were in diapers. I only vaguely know how to sway and spin because of our living room dancing sessions.”

He chuckles. “Not quite that young, but close enough.”

I look up at him, studying his face. Despite the tension between him and my newly-discovered family, Arthur has been incredibly supportive throughout this whole process. He attends every lesson with me, stands up for me when my instructors get too harsh, and has practically rearranged his entire schedule to accommodate my training.

He’s amazing. And I’m not cut out for this. I belong in a messy art studio in my yellow cardigan with the hole in the sleeve, not in a ballroom wearing enormous skirts with people watching my every move.

“Time’s up!” Madame Laurent announces, even though it’s only been, like, two minutes at the most. “Back to your positions, please.”

With a sigh, I return to Arthur’s arms, trying to remember all the rules. Back straight but not stiff. Chin up but not too high. Right hand on his shoulder, left hand in his. Elbows at the right angle. Don’t look at your feet.

The music starts again, and we begin to move. One-two-three, one-two-three. For the first few beats, I actually manage to follow, but then Arthur turns and I go in the wrong direction, stepping squarely on his foot.

“Ow!” He winces.

“I’m so sorry!” I freeze in place, mortified.

Madame Laurent stops the music with a dramatic sigh. “Miss. Willford, you’re thinking too much with your head and not enough with your body.”

“What does that even mean?” I mutter. “I’m not a dancer. I’m an artist. I spend my days alone in studios with paint on my hands, not waltzing around ballrooms.”

“Perhaps that’s the problem,” Arthur says suddenly. “When you paint, you’re in your own world, right? Just you and the canvas.”

I nod, not sure where he’s going with this.

“But right now, you’re hyper-aware of Madame Laurent watching you, of me leading you, of your parents’ expectations…” He reaches up and loosens his tie. “What if we eliminated some of those distractions?”

Before I can ask what he means, he’s slipping the tie from around his neck and stepping behind me. “Do you trust me?” he asks softly.

“Of course,” I answer without hesitation.

He places the silk tie over my eyes, tying it securely at the back of my head. The world goes dark, and suddenly, all I can sense is Arthur—his scent, the warmth of his body close to mine, the gentle pressure of his hands guiding me back into position.

“What is the meaning of this?” Madame Laurent sputters.

Arthur simply takes his position again, and the sensation of his warm hand settling on my waist is even more intoxicating than usual with one of my senses blocked out. “Start the music, please.”

There’s a moment of silence, then the waltz begins again. I’m tense at first, terrified of stumbling blindly across the dance floor.

“Relax,” Arthur murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “Don’t think about the steps. Feel them through me. Pretend we’re in the living room, dancing to a vinyl record.”

His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer. His other hand holds mine securely. Without my sight, these points of contact become my entire world—the way his chest moves as he breathes, the way his feet shift against the floor, the sound of his low voice softly humming to the music.

For a moment, I can picture it; our quiet apartment in the middle of the night, the gentle flickering of a candle, the crickets chirping outside the window.

Home.

And then, somehow, I’m dancing. Really dancing, not just mechanically counting steps. My body follows his as if we’re two parts of the same organism. When he turns, I turn. When he steps back, I follow forward. It’s like the blindfold has shut down the overthinking part of my brain and allowed my body to take over, and, oh, how wonderful it feels.

“Yes!” Madame Laurent cries out. “Magnificent! Keep going!”

Arthur leads me through spins and turns that I would never have managed with my eyes open. There’s a freedom in this darkness, like surrendering to the familiarity of his body—the familiarity that neither of us lost, not even once, after five years apart.

The music swells, and Arthur’s movements become more dramatic. He dips me low, one hand strong against my back, then pulls me up into a tight spin that leaves me dizzy and giggling. As the final notes approach, he guides me through a series of quick, intricate steps that I execute perfectly.

With a flourish, he spins me out, then pulls me back in as the music reaches its crescendo. The momentum brings me crashing against his chest, and at the same moment, the blindfold—loosened by all our movement—slips from my eyes and falls to the floor.

The world rushes back, but all I can see is Arthur. His green eyes, his dark hair with that one dastardly curl free from its restraints. His arm is still wrapped tightly around my waist, holding me so close I can feel his heart pounding in time with mine.

We’re both breathing hard, our faces mere inches apart. His eyes drop to my lips, and I feel a familiar flutter in my stomach.

“There,” he whispers. “You’re a natural.”