Then, her face changes. It takes me a beat to realize she’s noticed me staring at her lips. She raises an eyebrow, like she’s asking me what I’m looking at. I tear my eyes away, my cheeks red-hot. Please tell me no one got that on camera.

Speaking of cameras, I finally get a grip on myself then and smile for them. I’d better smile, I figure. I might be nobody, but right now I’ve got Rose’s hand on my back, which might make me somebody special enough to end up in another article. And if that happens with me looking stunned and dazed—after the bulldozer photo that did the rounds online a few weeks back—I might never get over the shame.

Rose would make for a great photo, though. If she’s usually pretty, tonight she looks unbelievably gorgeous in a tea-length dress with off-the-shoulder sleeves. It’s in the exact same shade of soft green as her eyes.

“Shall we head in?” she asks, steering us along the carpet. Her hand is still warm against my back, I realize suddenly. This seems like a super long time to hold physical contact—especially when Rose isn’t exactly a touchy-feely sort of person to begin with.

“You look lovely,” Rose says to me, which I’m sure she’s said to everyone she’s seen tonight. “Though I’m disappointed the jacket didn’t make an appearance.”

I want to reply, but I’m still fuzzy from adrenaline. The only sentence my brain offers up is, You’re so fucking pretty. And even though she just complimented me, there’s no way in hell I’m saying that out loud. When I don’t say anything, though, she looks worried. “Do you need some air before we go in?”

Focus, Danni. “No, nope, I’m good.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

I turn to her and plaster on a smile. “I’m all good. Let’s go.”

The noise of the crowd gets louder as we pass through the hallway and reach the entrance doors. Then, the footmen open them, one on each side, and we’re hit by a wall of deafening noise: a roaring mixture of laughter, talking, and music. Debussy, I realize as we enter, only to spot a whole-ass orchestra on a stage to my far left. There’s got to be hundreds of people here. All fancy, all wearing suits and evening gowns and tiaras, and mingling like they’ve all known each other forever. Ice sculptures of the queen’s likeness and the royal emblem are scattered around the room, and there’s a champagne fountain nearby, and every inch of the room seems to be covered in giant floral arrangements of pinks, blues, and whites.

“Holy shit,” I say, and Rose lights up at my reaction.

“Wait till you see the aerial ballet performance,” she says. “That’s in an hour or so.”