Chapter Two: The Dance of Denial
Three weeks passed.
Three weeks of seeing Lyon D'Lyrandar across crowded ballrooms and pretending she didn't know what he looked like without his formal attire. Three weeks of watching him make polite conversation with diplomats and nobles while she remembered the desperate sounds he'd made in her arms.
Three weeks of him pretending they'd never met.
The first time had been at the Aundairian ambassador's gala. Selina had been working the room in her usual way, gathering whispers and secrets with the practiced ease of someone who'd been trained since birth. She'd seen Lyon across the dance floor, resplendent in midnight blue formal wear that made his dichromatic eyes even more striking.
Their gazes had met. Selina's breath had caught. For a moment, she'd seen recognition flare in those mismatched eyes—recognition and something else. Longing, perhaps. Regret.
Then a shutter had dropped. Lyon had looked away, turning his attention to the young noblewoman at his side with a practiced smile.
Selina had felt the dismissal like a slap.
She'd waited until later in the evening, when she'd maneuvered herself into his vicinity near the refreshment table. "Lord D'Lyrandar," she'd said, her voice pitched low. "It's been too long."
Lyon had turned, his expression politely blank. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Miss...?"
"Thrane," Selina had supplied, something cold settling in her chest. "Selina Thrane. We met at—"
"Ah, yes. The actress." Lyon had given her a courteous nod, the kind one gave to acquaintances one barely remembered. "Your latest production was quite acclaimed, I understand. If you'll excuse me—"
And he'd walked away, leaving Selina standing alone with a glass of wine she didn't remember picking up.
The second encounter had been worse.
It was at a charity auction for the Sharn orphanages, an event Selina attended both for appearances and because she genuinely cared about the cause. She'd been examining a piece of art up for bid—a small landscape with unusually vibrant colors—when Lyon had appeared at her elbow.
"It's by Ezra," a woman next to her had whispered to her companion. "You know, the mysterious street artist. Can you imagine? A piece by Ezra at a charity auction!"
Selina had felt Lyon stiffen beside her, though he'd said nothing."It's beautiful," Selina had said, loud enough for Lyon to hear. "The way the colors seem almost alive. You can feel the emotion in every brushstroke."
Lyon had cleared his throat. "If you'll pardon me—"
"I wonder who Ezra really is," Selina had continued, reckless now. "Don't you find it fascinating, Lord D'Lyrandar? Someone with this much talent, hiding behind a false name?"
For just a moment, Lyon's mask had slipped. She'd seen fear in his eyes, and anger, and something that might have been pleading.
Then the mask was back. "I'm sure I wouldn't know," he'd said coldly. "I don't pay much attention to street art. Real art hangs in galleries, not on alley walls."
The words had stung more than they should have. Selina had watched him walk away, remembering how reverently he'd spoken about his art that night, how his whole being had come alive when he painted.
This Lyon—the one in formal wear who dismissed street art as beneath notice—was a lie. But it was the lie he'd chosen to live.
The third encounter had been just last week, at her mother's insistence. The Queen had sent word that Selina should pay particular attention to the D'Lyrandar family, that there were rumors of a significant trade agreement being negotiated. Selina had cornered Lyon in an alcove, using a subtle glamour to ensure their conversation wouldn't be overheard.
"How long are you going to pretend?" she'd asked without preamble.
Lyon had looked at her then, really looked at her, and she'd seen the exhaustion in his eyes.
"As long as I have to."
"Lyon—"
"Lord D'Lyrandar," he'd corrected sharply. "We're not... we don't have the kind of relationship where first names are appropriate, Miss Thrane."
"We had the kind of relationship where you painted me," Selina had hissed. "Where you touched me with colors and magic and—"
"That was a mistake." His voice had been flat, emotionless. "We both agreed."
"You agreed. I just... accepted."
Lyon had closed his eyes briefly. "My family is arranging a marriage contract. The negotiations are delicate. If there's even a hint of scandal, if anyone discovers my connection to Ezra or to you—"
"I wouldn't tell anyone," Selina had said, hating how small her voice sounded.
"You're a spy, Selina." The use of her first name had been almost worse than the accusation.
"Your entire life is built on telling people things. On trading secrets for advantage."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Lyon had looked at her with something like pity. "We're both living lies, Selina. The difference is, I'm trying to protect mine. You seem determined to burn yours down."
He'd left her there in the alcove, and Selina had stood alone in the shadows, blinking back tearsshe had no right to shed.
But something in that conversation had crystallized her resolve.
She was tired of living lies. Tired of pretending. Tired of watching Lyon slowly suffocate under the weight of his family's expectations while his art—his true self—went unrecognized.
If he wouldn't fight for what mattered, she would fight for him.
The fashion show had been her idea, conceived in a moment of reckless inspiration after too much wine and too many sleepless nights thinking about mismatched eyes and the taste of honey-magic.
Selina had connections throughout Sharn's fashion industry—one didn't become a celebrity actress without developing a network. She'd cashed in favors, used her mother's name, and put her own considerable fortune on the line to make it happen.
The theme: Urban Dreams. A celebration of Sharn's street art, brought to life in fabric and form.
Every piece in the collection was inspired by Ezra's work. The colors he used, the emotion he evoked, the way his art made you feel things you couldn't name. Selina had worked with designers she trusted, showing them photographs she'd taken of his murals around the city, describing the synesthetic magic she'd experienced when he painted her.
The designers had thought she was inspired by Ezra's public work. They didn't know she'd felt those colors on her skin.
The show was set for the height of the social season, in one of Middle Central's most prestigious venues. Selina had ensured invitations went to everyone who mattered—including the entire D'Lyrandar family.
Including Lyon.
The night of the show, Selina stood backstage, her heart pounding with something that felt like fear and exhilaration combined. She'd worn her own design—a gown that shifted from deep purple to electric blue depending on the angle of the light, with threads of gold woven through like captured sunlight.
The colors Lyon had painted her with, that first night.
The show began. Models walked the runway in outfits that seemed to pulse with life—a jacket in the exact shade of cyan-becoming-magenta that she'd seen in the alley, a dress that fractaled like phoenix wings, an ensemble in colors that made the audience gasp and lean forward, as if they could almost smell the rain in that blue, taste the honey in that gold.
Selina watched from the wings, her eyes searching the audience.
There. Third row, sitting stiff and uncomfortable between his parents. Lyon D'Lyrandar, dressed in formal black that made him look like he was attending a funeral rather than a fashion show.
But his eyes—his eyes were fixed on the runway with an intensity that made Selina's breath catch. He knew. Of course he knew. Every piece, every color, every design was a love letter written in his own visual language.The show built to its climax. The final model would wear Selina's masterpiece—a ensemble that combined every technique, every color, every emotion she'd experienced in Lyon's art. It was meant to be a declaration, a message he couldn't possibly misunderstand: I see you. The real you. And it's beautiful.
As the penultimate model left the runway, Selina saw Lyon stand. His parents tried to pull him back down, but he shook them off, moving down the row toward the aisle. For a moment, Selina thought he was leaving, that even this hadn't been enough.
Then she saw his face.
He wasn't running away. He was coming to her.
Lyon reached the backstage entrance just as Selina stepped out to meet him. They stood there, separated by a velvet rope and the watchful eyes of security, and for a moment neither of them spoke.
"You did this," Lyon said finally. "All of this. For me."
"For Ezra," Selina corrected softly. "For the artist who deserves to be celebrated, not hidden."
"You're going to ruin everything," Lyon said, but there was no heat in it. "My family, the marriage contract, my position—"
"I know."
"You're going to expose both of us. Everything we've worked for—"
"I know," Selina repeated. "Lyon, I know. But I don't care anymore. I'm so tired of pretending.
Aren't you?"
Lyon stared at her, those dichromatic eyes bright with unshed tears. Then he did something that made the security guards tense and the nearby staff gasp.
He vaulted over the velvet rope and kissed her.
It wasn't like their first kiss in the alley, urgent and desperate. It wasn't like their second kiss in her apartment, loaded with desire and discovery. This kiss was a choice. A declaration. A surrender.
When they broke apart, Lyon rested his forehead against hers. "Yes," he breathed. "I'm tired of pretending too."
From the runway, Selina could hear the confusion in the audience, the murmur of voices wondering why the show had paused. From the corner of her eye, she could see Lyon's parents in their seats, his mother's face white with shock.
"We're going to lose everything," Lyon said.
"Not everything," Selina replied. "Not each other."
Lyon laughed, short and breathless. "That's incredibly romantic and completely impractical."
"I'm an actress. Romance is my specialty."
"And practicality?""Overrated." Selina pulled back enough to look into his eyes. "Lyon, I don't know what happens next. I don't know if we can make this work. But I know I'd rather try and fail than spend the rest of my life wondering what if."
Lyon cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbones. "Together, then. Whatever comes."
"Together," Selina agreed.
Behind them, the show had to go on. The final model appeared, wearing Selina's masterpiece, and the audience erupted in applause that felt like vindication and victory combined.
But Selina barely heard it. She was too busy kissing Lyon D'Lyrandar, the noble heir and secret artist, the man who painted in colors that tasted like emotion and felt like touch.
The man she loved.
Tomorrow would bring consequences. Tomorrow would bring her mother's fury and his family's outrage and all the complications of two people trying to build something real in a city built on lies.
But tonight—tonight was theirs.