Music slams against the walls, light cuts through the air — the night has only just begun, and the hall is already boiling.
And yes, tonight every eye is on me.
"Prom Queen — Victoria Montrey!"
Applause, camera flashes, whispers from the girls, lingering looks from the boys.
This is my moment. I smile — steady, confident. Winning should always look effortless.
My dress is black, smooth, sculpted to my body. A high ponytail, earrings, perfect makeup — every detail calculated. I must look like a girl who knows exactly where she is going. And what she intends to claim.
Lukas approaches — too sincere, too open for this world.
My best friend. And the boy still waiting for the day I choose him.
"Vic," he says, looking at me as if I'm some kind of miracle. "You look incredible."
"I know," I smile. "And you are the best partner. And the best friend."
He flinches — barely, but I see it.
The word "friend" lands like a period at the end of a sentence.
"We will dance together for the last time," he says hoarsely. "Give me this night?"
He is not asking for a dance — he is asking for a chance.
I know I am breaking his hope, yet I nod anyway.
"Of course. Who else is going to make you look this handsome?" I tease, brushing my fingers against his cheek.
He laughs — happy in that soft, familiar way he only is when he stands beside me.
We step onto the stage.
Music pours over us. Eight years of training settles into my bones — everything flows on instinct. We move easily, beautifully. To everyone watching, we are the perfect pair.
To me, we are habit. And safety.
With him, I never have to pretend.
But there is no fire.
When he whispers:
"You have no idea how much I love you…"
"I do," I answer quietly. "But if we go any further, we will lose our friendship."
He goes still. And I know — it hurts.
But there is no other way.
The music fades. We hold the final pose.
Applause erupts again, flooding the hall.
I stand in the spotlight and feel an odd tremor inside me.
A warning.
A pull.
As if somewhere beyond this evening, something — someone — is already moving toward me. Someone I will never be able to control.
Not the boy who asks.
Not the boy who loves.
Someone dangerous.
Someone because of whom I will either lose myself — or finally find who I am meant to be.
And for some reason, the thought terrifies me.
And draws me in.
The game is only beginning.
And I already know the rules, this time, will not be mine.
**
Backstage, the light is dim — as if the stage has drifted somewhere far away and only its faint reflections reach this place.
The air smells of hairspray, makeup, and sweat — warm, human, real.
I can still feel the music humming in my body.
My mother — Madeleine — appears in the doorway. Tall, assured, elegant. She always enters as if the world is expected to step aside. And she looks at me the same way she always does: as if I am her work, her victory.
"I am proud of you," she says, kissing my cheek. Cool lips, a trace of menthol. "I raised you well. Now just keep moving forward."
I smile automatically, as if the stage lights are still pointed straight into my face.
I take a glass — sweet, icy. I need something cold to settle the shiver inside me.
"You gave me everything," I say evenly. "To hold my boundaries. To get what I want."
But underneath, something stirs:
She is the example.
She is the standard.
She is the ceiling.
And I will have to build a life above all that.
"Which is why you will attend the Capital University of Santerra," my mother says, smoothing a fold in my dress. A precise, businesslike gesture. "That is where real life begins."
My heart jolts.
Santerra — vast, unfamiliar, overwhelming.
And I am supposed to step into it.
"It is strange that we are parting," I breathe, my voice trembling slightly. "Who will be there? Who will guide me?"
Mother touches my face softly. Not because it is fragile — but because it is valuable.
"You are too well-raised to do anything foolish," she says, fixing a stray lock of my hair. "And too smart to lose yourself."
I let out a small, ironic breath.
Intelligence is not armor.
Not when it comes to feelings.
I glance out into the hall.
The crowd seethes. Girls — bright, restless, fluttering like a flock of neon birds — whisper and eye one another.
Clara and her friends — glossy, loud — look at me as if my success is an obstacle in their lives.
They have always copied everything. Clothes, tone, expressions.
But a copy never becomes the original.
And I like that.
Honestly, I like it too much.
Roman stands with the boys — bold, predatory.
He watches me as if he has already chosen me.
More than once he has grabbed my wrist near the exit, leaning in with his low, reckless "I like the living ones, not the dolls."
He wanted to use me — and he knew he could.
And still… something in that rawness pulls me in.
Sometimes it feels like it is better than the sterile correctness I have been raised in.
Lukas always arrived on time.
Always stepped between us when Roman crossed the line.
But with Lukas, everything is safe.
Quiet.
Predictable.
Which means — no future.
No risk.
No spark that steals your breath.
"Remember," my mother says again, reclaiming the moment as if this is her stage, not mine. "Do not devalue yourself for the sake of emotion."
I roll my eyes on purpose.
"Mom, I remember your lectures. I do not owe a man sex just because he paid me a compliment."
She smiles, pleased, as if it were her thought, her school.
"Men love to think of themselves as hunters," she says. "But it is we who decide who becomes the prey."
We choose.
Yes.
But sometimes…
Sometimes I want the opposite.
To let someone catch me — even just for a moment.
No rules.
No control.
Mother suddenly pulls me into a tight embrace.
And I feel, for a heartbeat, that she is not holding the perfect girl — she is holding a child she is afraid to lose.
"You are an incredible daughter," she whispers. "And you will be fine. You always are."
She lets go. Her eyes shimmer.
"Go. Enjoy this. It is your day."
Music erupts again. The hall churns, smelling of champagne and other people's dreams.
I smile — beautiful, confident — and feel something twist painfully inside me.
This is my day.
My triumph.
My beginning.
So why does tomorrow feel so cold?
Why does it feel like somewhere out there, in the crowd, someone is already watching me —
someone who will break every rule
I have ever been taught?
And the most dangerous part is—
I will let him.
**
Lukas appears almost silently, as if afraid to disturb the air around me.
He is holding a glass of lemonade; droplets slide down the glass and cling to his fingers. He is nervous — it shows in every small movement.
"Vic, let's get out of here," he says hoarsely. "Just the two of us. No crowd."
I raise a brow, placing an invisible shield between us.
"Why?"
He flushes instantly, as if I have caught him thinking something he is not brave enough to say aloud.
"I want to talk," he murmurs. "To tell you something important."
Of course.
Right now.
When the night is winding down, when I am already mentally letting go of everything — he chooses this moment for a confession.
I place my hand over his.
I know how to touch in a way that gives warmth, but not promise.
"Lukas," I say gently. "You're a good guy. Truly."
He looks at me as if he is hanging on every word.
"But tomorrow we'll be in different cities, on different paths," I continue quickly, before I can hesitate. "You cannot stop that. And the sooner you accept it, the less it will hurt."
He freezes.
The ice in his glass gives a soft, breaking chime — as if something inside him cracks with it.
"One day you'll realize what you've lost," he whispers, almost threateningly, and a cold ripple travels across my skin.
"Maybe," I say, kissing his cheek.
His skin is hot; he leans toward me just slightly.
I slide my hand down his back — a gentle stroke, a comfort — and in the same instant I pull away.
A boundary. Clear. Uncrossable.
He looks at me as if I've shattered something precious.
Maybe I have.
But this isn't my battle.
He fell in love with me —
with the image I wear like a dress, not with the girl who sometimes fears her own choices.
**
Outside — a warm provincial night in Evandor. Damp, loud, a little tired.
Cars, voices, music spilling from open windows — everything blends into one restless hum.
I stand on the steps with my glass.
The ice melts, my fingers grow cold, and everything inside me burns.
Life is happening all around me — loud, chaotic — and it feels like I'm watching it through glass.
I could walk away right now.
And no one would turn their head.
"You'll be a star," I whisper to myself. "You'll conquer Santerra."
And maybe there — maybe — I'll find a love that makes my chest feel too small for my own heart.
But then the thought flares, sharp and sudden:
What if I take a risk?
Do everything right, the way Mom taught me — but for the first time, do it for myself?
I exhale, feeling the weight of the future settle on my shoulders.
"Then make sure that risk is worth the win," I say aloud, as if giving myself an order.
Sometimes I feel like I am just a beautiful shell people admire,
and no one knows whether I can actually live — not only win.
I lift my glass, like a toast.
To life.
To power.
To the game I am only stepping into.
And I do not yet understand that it has already begun —
that my main opponent is already watching me.
I did not know one man would turn my heart into a battlefield.
I did not know his name.
I did not know he existed.
But he was already somewhere in the crowd.
In the shadow.
And he was watching me not with love,
not with admiration,
but the way a player looks at a prize
he intends to take
at any cost.
And from that unseen gaze,
a cold shiver slides down my spine.