The Crown And The Crumb

The toast lingered in the air longer than the bubbles in anyone's champagne.

Even as the orchestra picked up again and conversation resumed, the atmosphere had shifted. Isla could feel it in the way the crowd moved now—how people looked at her like she was no longer an accident in their perfect painting, but a curious, untamed detail.

Some looked amused. Some resentful. A few—unsettlingly intrigued.

Isla stood near a gilded pillar, half-listening to the music as a trio of nobles approached her with thin smiles and champagne smiles even thinner. They introduced themselves too politely, voices lilting with amusement just shy of mockery.

"I've been meaning to stop by your bakery," one said, her pearls gleaming against a dress that probably cost more than Isla's rent. "It's so... quaint."

"Quaint's just another word for charming," Isla said, "but with a condescending smile on top."

The woman blinked once. Another laughed politely, the kind of laugh that didn't reach her eyes.

"Well," the third added, "you've certainly shaken things up around here."

"I get that a lot," Isla said sweetly. "Usually after dropping flour everywhere."

They drifted away shortly after, deciding she wasn't the soft-spoken target they'd hoped for.

She barely had time to take a breath before someone new stepped into her space.

"Miss Isla Reed," a voice said with lazy precision.

Isla turned to see a tall, statuesque woman in silver-gray silk, every inch of her gleaming with quiet power. She smiled without warmth, the kind of smile that came with a blade hidden inside.

"Duchess Rennelle," the woman offered. "You're braver than you look."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Isla replied.

The duchess circled her slowly, not quite rudely, but not hiding it either. "You know, it's a strange thing—how quickly the public can elevate someone simply for being...unexpected."

"Better unexpected than forgettable," Isla said.

A flicker passed through the woman's eyes. "And humble, too."

"Oh, definitely. I'm practically a saint," Isla said dryly.

Someone nearby stifled a laugh.

Rennelle's smile didn't waver, but her eyes cooled a degree. "Well. I'm sure this night will be one you never forget."

"I'm counting on it."

The duchess drifted away, her silk trailing behind her like a threat.

"You're doing great," Cael said, appearing beside Isla as if summoned by tension. "That was Round One of Royal Gladiator. You survived."

"Barely."

He held up an invisible scorecard. "Ten out of ten for verbal jabs. Extra points for poise under condescension."

She smiled, relieved by his easy presence. "You always show up right after I nearly snap."

"I'm good like that." He held out his hand. "Dance with me? You look like you need to do something other than deflect subtle insults."

She hesitated, but he raised an eyebrow. "Come on. I promise not to talk about bread or politics."

She placed her hand in his.

The ballroom was spinning gently with couples, the orchestra playing a soft waltz that glittered as much as the chandeliers. Cael's hand rested lightly at her waist as they stepped into rhythm.

"I've never danced with a scandal before," he teased.

"I've never danced with a baron of somewhere tiny," she shot back.

"Fair," he said. "But I did once set fire to my cousin's birthday cake and blamed the dog, so we both have our reputations."

She laughed, and it came more freely than she expected.

Across the room, she caught sight of Dorian.

He wasn't dancing. Just standing with a small cluster of nobles, drink in hand, attention drifting.

Until their eyes met.

It wasn't subtle.

He held her gaze for a moment too long again. Like he was trying to read something in her expression—or maybe rewrite it.

Cael followed her line of sight and smirked. "You've made quite the impression on the crown."

"Apparently I'm good for morale. And scandal."

"Well, the court's needed a shake-up," Cael said, spinning her under his arm and back into step. "You're like cinnamon in a sugar bowl. Unexpected. Slightly dangerous."

She arched a brow. "You comparing me to a spice?"

"I thought it was a compliment."

The song slowed. Cael dipped her with a wink, then bowed. "Thank you for the honor, Lady Scandal."

She grinned. "Pleasure, Baron Mischief."

He disappeared into the swirl of the crowd, and Isla exhaled—lighter now.

She wandered toward the drinks table, taking a sip of something fizzy that tasted like pear and power plays.

"Enjoying the festivities?" Dorian's voice cut in, smooth as ever.

She didn't flinch. "Immensely. The duchess threatened me with her eyebrows. I consider that a win."

He looked at her a moment, like trying to decide if she was serious. "You're getting comfortable in my world."

"I'm just trying not to trip in heels."

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're making more friends than enemies. Impressive."

She tilted her head. "And here I thought you'd be jealous of Cael."

"Should I be?"

"Depends on how easily your feathers ruffle."

"I don't ruffle," he said coolly. "But I do pay attention."

A beat passed between them.

"I meant what I said earlier," he added. "About the toast. You surprised me."

"Good. You needed that."

He held her gaze, then offered a hand.

"One dance. For appearances, of course."

"Of course."

She set her drink down and took his hand, letting him lead her back toward the center of the room.

Around them, whispers rose again.

And Isla let them talk.