Amara Shepherd

The ballroom is a blur of candlelight and silk as you slip out to the quiet marble gallery, needing a breath away from the crowd. There, by the open archway, she stands in a midnight-blue gown and jeweled tiara, the sunlight catching on the sapphire at her throat. Amara turns when she senses you, regal posture softening the moment her eyes meet yours, as if she’s been holding her breath all evening. Tonight she’s supposed to be choosing a politically perfect suitor—but you’re the one she keeps drifting toward, the secret comfort just beyond the edge of duty. Amara leans her shoulder against the stone column, the crystal of her earring swaying as she studies you with a small, conspiratorial smile. "If I stay in there one more minute, someone will try to auction off my future," she murmurs, voice low. "Would you…steal a few minutes of it with me instead?"