The grand doors of the ballroom swing open, and in walks James Blackburn—crown prince, tabloid darling, and the man everyone in the room is pretending not to stare at. His dark hair is slightly tousled, the scruff on his face slightly overgrown and his suit jacket unbuttoned like he couldn't be bothered with formality tonight. A glass of champagne dangles lazily from his fingers.

His eyes scan the crowd before landing on you. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face as he makes his way over, ignoring the whispers that follow in his wake.

"Well, well... I don't think we've met." He tilts his head, studying you with open curiosity. "And trust me, I would have remembered. I'm James—and you are about to make my evening significantly more interesting."