Chapter 37 Engagement Ball Disaster (Part I)
The night began with a mistake. Not a small one. Not a subtle one. A catastrophic, silk-wrapped, diamond-encrusted mistake that would, within three hours, destabilize half the capital’s noble hierarchy, offend at least twelve houses, ignite two near-duels, and somehow— somehow— increase Grand Duke Aric Solheim’s emotional attachment to Ulrika Vincent by a concerning margin.
Scene I: The Preparation (Or, The Beginning of Ruin)
“Do not eat too much.”
That was the first instruction.
Marchioness Elara Vincent stood before her daughter like a general before a battlefield—calm, poised, and fully aware that what she was about to deploy into high society was not a debutante— —but a weapon with poor impulse control.
“Small portions. Elegant bites. You are not at a military banquet. You're pregnant, not starving.”
Ulrika nodded. Very seriously. Very earnestly. Very convincingly. “I understand, Mother.”
Elara narrowed her eyes. She did not believe her. Not even slightly.
Behind Ulrika, three maids adjusted layers of silk, gold-thread embroidery, and delicate jewelry. Her gown was a deep midnight blue, designed to mirror the Solheim colors—subtle, intentional, and politically loaded. The neckline was modest. The silhouette elegant. The back— …considerably less modest. But tasteful. Elara had approved it. Which meant it passed the threshold of “will not start a scandal unless Ulrika opens her mouth.” A risk. A significant one.
“Repeat the rules.”
Ulrika blinked. Then, like a soldier reciting doctrine: “Smile when required. Speak only when necessary. Avoid confrontation unless unavoidable. Do not insult anyone important. Do not threaten anyone. Do not—” She paused. Frowned slightly. “—initiate violence in a ballroom or use a weapon on anyone.”
Elara closed her eyes and prayed a slient prayer for peace. “…we will consider that sufficient.”
Scene II: Arrival of Disaster
The Solheim Engagement Ball was not merely an event. It was a political arena disguised as celebration. Crystal chandeliers dripped light like molten gold. Marble floors reflected nobility like mirrors of judgment. Every noble house of significance was present—draped in wealth, sharpened by ambition, smiling like wolves pretending to be swans. And into this— walked Ulrika Vincent. On Aric Solheim’s arm.
The moment they entered— The room shifted. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t obvious. But it was instant. Whispers. Eyes. Calculations. “That’s her.” “The odd girl.” “The one the Grand Duke chose?” “She’s… not what I expected.” “She’s definitely different.”
Ulrika heard all of it. Processed none of it. Because at that exact moment— Her eyes locked onto something far more important. The food table.
“…Aric.”
“Yes.”
“…they have roasted quail.”
“Yes.”
“…and honey-glazed root vegetables.”
“Yes.”
“…and layered cream pastries.”
“…yes.”
She looked at him. Completely serious. “I will behave.”
Aric nodded. “I believe you.” He did not. But he said it anyway. Because he had already made peace with his fate.
Scene III: The First Mistake
It began gently. Almost innocently. Ulrika took a plate. A small one. As instructed. She selected— one pastry. Two slices of meat. A few vegetables. Perfectly reasonable. Perfectly controlled. Perfectly—
She went back.
And again.
And again.
Aric watched. Silently but understanding. From across the room. A glass of wine untouched in his hand. His aide, standing beside him, whispered in growing horror: “…Your Grace.”
“Yes.”
“…she has returned to the table six times.”
“Yes.”
“…she is stacking desserts.”
“Yes.”
“…she is— is that an entire tray?”
“…yes.”
The aide made a strangled noise. “That is not how noble ladies eat.”
Aric took a slow sip of wine. His gaze never left Ulrika. “I am aware. However, she is also pregnant and thus, she is providing nourishment for our children.”
“…should we stop her?”
Aric considered this. Carefully. Thoughtfully. Then— “No.”
Across the ballroom— Ulrika Vincent was discovering joy.
Scene IV: Social Combat (Unintentional Casualties)
It was inevitable. Tragedy always is.
“You must be Lady Ulrika Vincent.”
The voice was smooth. Polished. Sharpened with superiority.
Ulrika turned. Still holding a plate. Still mid-bite. Before her stood Lady Xsida Valemont. Daughter of a duke. Known for her beauty. More known for her cruelty.
Ulrika chewed. Swallowed. Looked at her. “…yes.”
Xsida’s smile was thin. “I must say, I was quite surprised by the Grand Duke’s choice.”
Ulrika nodded. “I was also surprised.”
A pause. A ripple. Nearby nobles leaned in.
Xsida blinked. “…I beg your pardon?”
“I did not expect him to choose me either.” Ulrika took another bite. Completely unbothered. “I assumed he would choose someone more… socially acceptable.”
Someone choked on their drink.
Xsida’s smile strained. “You are… remarkably self-aware.”
“Yes.”
“I meant it as an insult.”
“I am aware.”
The tension snapped tighter.
Xsida leaned closer. Voice lower. Sharper. “And yet you accepted. Despite knowing you lack refinement.”
Ulrika tilted her head. Thought about it. Then said— “Yes.”
Silence.
“…that is all you have to say?”
“Yes.”
“…you do not deny it?”
“No.”
“…you do not defend yourself?”
“No.”
Xsida faltered. Just slightly. Because this— This was not how this conversation was supposed to go.
Ulrika took another bite. Then, after a moment— “You speak often.”
A nobleman choked. Violently.
Xsida froze. “…what?”
“You speak often. But say little.”
That did it.
“You insolent—”
“Also,” Ulrika continued calmly, “your perfume is too strong.”
Gasps. Actual gasps.
“It is distracting.”
Xsida’s face went red. Then white. Then something dangerous. “…you will apologize.”
“No.”
A pause. “…excuse me?”
“I will not apologize.”
Ulrika set her plate down. Finally. At last. Turning fully toward her. Eyes calm. Voice steady. “You approached me. You insulted me. I responded.”
The air changed. “Do not escalate further,” Ulrika added. Gently. Almost kindly. “I do not wish to fight you in a ballroom.”
The room— stopped. Xsida said, “…you would not dare.”
Ulrika blinked. “…correct.”
A beat. Then— “I would not dare.”
Relief flickered. For half a second.
“Because I would win too quickly.”
The ballroom exploded.
Scene V: Aric’s Perspective (The Problem)
“…Your Grace.”
“Yes.”
“…she has insulted Lady Valemont.”
“Yes.”
“…she has threatened her.”
“Yes.”
“…she is being challenged to a duel.”
“…yes.”
Aric set down his glass. Across the room— Nobles were gathering. Voices rising. Xsida trembling with fury. Ulrika standing— still. Calm. Unmoving.
“…should we intervene?” the aide whispered.
Aric watched. Carefully. Closely. Like a man observing a phenomenon he did not fully understand— but had already decided he would not stop.
“No.”
“…Your Grace—”
“She is not afraid.”
And that— That mattered. More than it should. More than logic allowed. More than was safe.
“…she is beautifully perfect.”
The aide went still. Then slowly— very slowly— turned to look at him. “I’m sorry,” he said faintly. “I think I misheard you.”
Aric did not look away from Ulrika. “I said,” he repeated calmly, “…she’s beautifully perfect.”
The aide nearly fainted.
The duel had not yet begun. But the doors of Ulrika's mouth— had just been unlocked.