The Crown And The Crumb

The orchestra struck a shimmering chord. Dorian offered his hand, and as he led Isla toward the center of the ballroom, the crowd instinctively parted—curiosity thick in the air, like static before a storm.

She was acutely aware of every eye in the ballroom as they stepped onto the floor together—every flicker of recognition, every raised brow. A murmur rippled through the guests like wind through tall grass.

This wasn't just a dance.

It was a declaration.

Her green velvet gown, modest in cut but magnetic in motion, moved like dark water around her ankles. Dorian led effortlessly, his palm warm against her back, but the air between them crackled—not with comfort, but with charged awareness.

"You know they're watching us like it's theatre," she said under her breath.

"It is theatre," Dorian replied, lips barely moving. "And you're playing your role dangerously well."

She arched an eyebrow. "So I'm the understudy to a royal scandal now?"

He didn't answer. But the corner of his mouth twitched—something between a smirk and surrender.

They moved in seamless time with the music, but Isla could feel the heat under her skin rising. Each turn was too close, every touch too calculated.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he asked.

"If by 'this' you mean pretending not to notice everyone whispering about us?" she murmured. "Thoroughly."

"You're more composed than most diplomats I know."

"I frost cupcakes while ovens threaten to explode. I'm built for pressure."

She misstepped and her heel grazed his foot.

He inhaled slightly. "You did that on purpose."

She smiled. "You didn't flinch. I'm almost disappointed."

Dorian's fingers adjusted slightly at her waist. "It's unusual," he said, voice quieter now. "Having someone get under my skin this quickly."

"Maybe you need to spend more time outside the palace," she said smoothly. "There's a whole world out here. Full of people not trained to flatter you."

He was about to respond when the orchestra softened for a breath, and a stray comment drifted from the edge of the dance floor.

"Velvet never caused such scandal," a voice murmured behind them.

Isla's ear twitched at the comment—one noble to another, spoken just low enough to be discreet, just loud enough to sting. But she didn't let her expression falter.

Dorian leaned in with mock formality. "They're calling you the velvet tempest already."

Isla gave a tight smile. "Catchy. Better than bread girl gone rogue."

There was a beat.

Then Dorian tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "Give them two more dances and they'll start blaming you for the fall of the monarchy."

She laughed—actually laughed—and in that exact moment, the court photographer snapped a photo: Isla's head thrown back, green velvet twirling, and Dorian watching her with something unreadable in his eyes.

The music swelled and faded.

They stood there for a moment, both still catching their breath from the dance—and perhaps from something else neither of them named.

Dorian offered his arm. She took it.

They stepped away from the dance floor through a gap in the guests, slipping out a pair of open glass doors that led to a wide stone balcony overlooking the city.

The air outside was cooler—just enough to raise goosebumps across her skin. A light breeze stirred the hem of her gown and carried the faintest trace of lavender from the palace gardens below.

Far beneath them, the lights of the capital blinked like stars reversed. Above, the real constellations scattered across the sky, distant and unmoved.

Isla leaned slightly on the marble railing, exhaling once. Not a sigh, but close. She didn't speak. Neither did he—not at first.

"You could've walked away from all this," Dorian said, voice low.

Isla turned slightly. "Neither did you. So… here we are."

A faint smirk played at his lips, the kind that almost dared her to say more. His gaze dipped—briefly, deliberately—to her mouth.

"That mouth of yours," he murmured. "Always ready with a retort."

He said it lightly, but his eyes lingered a second too long—just enough for her to notice—before flicking back up to hers.

She stepped back, as if to leave—but he caught her wrist. Not tightly. Just enough.

"You keep surprising me, Isla Reed," he said.

Her breath caught—just a little—but she held his gaze. "Good. I hope it ruins your plans."

That made something flicker behind his eyes. Not irritation. Not amusement. Something… unsure.

"What plans?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

This time, when she pulled away, he let her go. Her fingers slipped from his as she moved through the glass doors, back into the ballroom's glow—disappearing into the glittering crowd like mist retreating from a flame.

Isla didn't wait for goodbyes. She walked through the ballroom with her head high and her heels slicing the marble with intent. No drama. No stumble. Just the quiet command of someone who'd already been the headline.

Somewhere behind her, another camera clicked.

⸻

The sun rose over the city in gold streaks and tabloid headlines.

#VelvetTempest was trending across every platform. A photo of Isla mid-spin, laughter in her eyes, Dorian focused entirely on her.

Other captions followed in its wake:

The Crown and the Commoner?

Green Velvet and Royal Trouble

#ScandalInVelvet

Did the Bakery Girl Just Break Protocol—and Hearts?

Screenshots of Dorian's toast flooded every feed.

Isla's bakery account had a thousand new followers by breakfast.

The world had seen her.

And they weren't done talking yet.