Chapter 1
The main hall of the Palace of Versailles that night felt like a sea of gold and jewels. Under the glimmer of a thousand crystal candles, the scent of expensive perfume and the world's finest wine wafted through the air. Everyone hid behind masks, flaunting their wealth, unaware that a wolf was sneaking among the sheep.
Elara adjusted her sapphire-encrusted feather mask. Her dark blue gown—which she had "borrowed" without permission from the Countess's wardrobe that morning—fit her perfectly, accentuating every curve that could make any man forget how to breathe.
But Elara wasn't here to be praised. Her eyes scanned the room, searching for one man.
Prince Alistair.
The man stood on the VIP balcony. His silver mask could not hide his firm jawline and sharp gray gaze that seemed capable of peeling away the soul of anyone who looked at him. Inside the pocket of his custom-made suit jacket was a microchip the size of a human fingernail. That small object was Elara's only ticket to freeing her father from the charge of treason.
"Shall we dance, Mademoiselle?"
The deep, cold baritone voice emerged right behind Elara's ear. Elara startled. She turned around, and her heart nearly leapt out of her chest.
Alistair was standing in front of him. Close. Too close.
"You look like someone who is lost... or searching for something," Alistair whispered. The corners of his lips curled into a smile that resembled a predator's grin.
Elara swallowed hard, trying to calm her racing heart. She had to play her part. "I was just admiring how arrogant this palace is, Your Highness."
Alistair's eyebrows raised. Instead of anger, he extended his white-gloved hand. "Then let's celebrate this grandeur with a dance."
Elara had no choice. If she refused, she would appear suspicious. If she accepted, she would be walking into the lion's den. She placed her tiny fingers in Alistair's large, strong palm.
The violin music began to play—a fast and urgent waltz melody.
Alistair pulled Elara's waist with a strong jerk, forcing their bodies together without any distance between them. Elara could smell the scent of sandalwood and expensive cigars from the Prince's body. Alistair's hand on her back felt hot, as if it could burn the silk fabric of her dress.
"What is your name?" Alistair asked as he spun Elara around on the dance floor.
"A name is just a label, isn't it?" Elara replied, her voice slightly hoarse due to the mere inches between them. "Just like this mask. We're all liars here."
Alistair's eyes narrowed, gleaming with dangerous interest. His hand on Elara's waist pressed slightly, as if trying to hold her back. "You're different. You move like a dancer, but your eyes stare as if you're ready to stab me at any moment."
"Perhaps I am ready," Elara challenged.
As their dance movements grew faster and more intense, Elara knew this was her chance. Alistair was focused on her eyes, on her lips. When Alistair lifted Elara's hand for the final turn, Elara deliberately let her body fall slightly, as if she had lost her balance.
Alistair swiftly caught her, pulling Elara fully into his embrace.
Now.
With movements as smooth as the wind, Elara's nimble fingers slipped into the inner pocket of Alistair's jacket. Just one second. She felt the small, hard object. Got it.
"Be careful, Mademoiselle," Alistair whispered right into Elara's ear, sending a shiver down her spine. His breath felt both seductive and threatening. "Falling in love with me is a death sentence. Falling on the dance floor is just a minor accident."
Elara smiled sweetly, the most fake smile she had ever made. "Thank you for the warning, Your Highness. But I have no intention of staying."
The palace clock began to strike. Midnight.
Elara gently pushed Alistair's body away, freeing herself from that intoxicating embrace. She bowed respectfully, then turned and ran through the crowd.
"Wait!" Alistair called out.
Alistair felt his pocket. His eyes widened when he realized it was empty. The gray glint in his eyes turned into a terrifying fire of rage.
"Close all the doors!" Alistair shouted, his voice booming throughout the hall, stopping the music instantly. "Catch that woman in blue! NOW!"
Elara was already on the marble stairs outside the palace. She ran as fast as she could. Unfortunately, one of her high heels got stuck in a crack in the marble. Panicking, Elara kicked off the shoe and continued running barefoot into the darkness of Paris, clutching the microchip that would change her life forever.
At the top of the stairs, Alistair stood, picking up the blue shoes that had been left behind. He watched Elara disappear, breathing heavily.
"Play your game, Little Cinderella," Alistair murmured in a low, possessive tone. "But when I find you... there won't be any prince to save you from me."
***
The wooden floor in the small upstairs room of the Hotel de L'Opera creaked as Elara closed the door behind her. Her breath was still ragged, her lungs burning from the cold Parisian oxygen she had inhaled during her escape.
He leaned his head against the door, his palms clenched tightly in front of his chest. As he slowly opened his fingers, a small silver box with a dim blue light in the center sparkled.
The microchip. "I did it, Dad," he whispered, his voice trembling.
However, the victory felt bitter as he looked down at his feet. His right foot was dirty and scraped from running barefoot on the rough asphalt, while his left foot was still wrapped in the blue silk shoe that now seemed like a symbol of a curse.
He had just stolen from the future King. A man known for never letting his prey escape.
Suddenly, the sound of sirens wailed in the distance, followed by the sound of a helicopter cutting through the Paris night sky. Alistair wasn't messing around. The man had just locked down the city for a piece of the object in Elara's hands.
Meanwhile, on the cold marble stairs of Versailles, Prince Alistair stood frozen. The blue silk shoes in his hands felt as light as cotton, but the anger weighing on his chest was as heavy as lead.
"Your Majesty," General Marc, the head of royal security, approached with a pale face. "The city gates have been closed. The tracking team is checking the surveillance camera footage, but that woman is very skilled. She disappeared in the narrow alleys of the 7th district."
Alistair didn't turn his head. His eyes remained fixed on the shoes. "She's no amateur thief, Marc. She knows exactly where that item is kept. She knows how to lure me in."
Alistair clutched the shoe so tightly that the silk fabric wrinkled. He remembered the warmth of Elara's body in his embrace, the intoxicating scent of jasmine, and the defiant flash in her eyes. No one had ever dared to toy with him like this before.
"Find the owner of these shoes," Alistair commanded, his voice low and sharp, the kind of voice that promised destruction. "These shoes are not factory-made. The stitching on the inside... these are a special order from a craftsman in Place Vendôme."
"But Your Highness, there are thousands of women in Paris who could own similar shoes—"
Alistair turned, his steel-gray eyes flashing coldly. "Only a handful of women would have the nerve to pickpocket the future King while dancing with him. And this woman, ... she's wearing a peacock feather mask that was only sold at a black market auction last month. Check the list of buyers."
He lifted the shoe to eye level. "And Marc? Don't just look for the thief. Look for the servant who didn't show up for duty tonight at the hotels around the palace. The dress she's wearing... the cut is too perfect for a commoner, but the way she moves when she runs... she's used to hard work."
***
Back at the hotel, Elara quickly took off her blue dress, which was torn at the bottom. She hid it in the pile of dirty laundry in the hotel basket—the dirtiest place that no noble would ever touch.
The next morning, she had to return to being the invisible Elara. The maid who cleaned up the remnants of the wealthy guests' extravagance.
But as she tried to close her eyes, she could still feel the heat of Alistair's hands on her waist. She knew that dance was not just a dance. It was a declaration of war.
Elara took a small box from under her bed and pulled out a worn photo of her father behind bars. "I'll get you out soon, Father. Whatever the cost."
She didn't realize that outside, the royal elite unit had already begun combing through district after district. And Alistair, the man whose secret she had just stolen, was sitting in his office with blue shoes on the table, swearing to make that mysterious woman his—to punish her, or perhaps, to possess her in a darker way.