Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 141: To Find Her

The Sentinel Ball at Capitol Hill unfolded in a blaze of polished grandeur, every chandelier casting molten gold across the vast hall, every uniform pressed to perfection, every smile carefully measured. It was less a celebration and more a display of power, of alliances, and of control dressed in civility.

Roxana did not belong to it.

Or perhaps she did... and that was precisely the problem.

She stood near the edge of the ballroom, half-shadowed by a towering marble pillar, her presence easy to overlook if one did not know where to look. The black dress she wore clung to her with quiet elegance, its simplicity deliberate amidst the sea of embellished gowns and decorated uniforms. It did not demand attention.

Neither did she.

Her blonde hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, catching the warm light in strands of gold, while her distant but watchful blue eyes, remained fixed not on the dancers, but on the room itself... Avoiding.

Across the hall, laughter rose in controlled bursts, glasses clinked, and conversations dipped into murmurs the moment certain names were spoken. Officers moved in clusters, their medals glinting like carefully curated histories, while politicians lingered just close enough to be seen beside them. The president gave speech, others shook hands... A typical boring gala.

***

Meanwhile, at the grand entrance of the Sentinel Ball, Alexander stood just inside the threshold, feeling distinctly out of place despite the precision of his tailored tuxedo. The fabric sat too stiffly on his shoulders, the collar too constricting, as though the entire attire had been designed for a version of him he did not recognize.

He handed his invitation over once more, his patience thinning as the usher scanned the list again with polite indifference.

"I’m sorry, sir. Your name isn’t here."

Alexander exhaled slowly, forcing down the irritation that threatened to rise. "That’s not possible. I RSVP’d."

The usher offered the same rehearsed smile, the kind meant to end conversations rather than continue them. "If you’d like, you can step aside while we recheck—"

"I already did step aside," Alexander cut in, his voice still controlled but edged now. He ran a hand through his hair, glancing past the doors into the glittering ballroom beyond, where everything seemed to move forward without him.

Roxana was inside. He could feel it with a certainty that made the distance between them unbearable.

He pulled out his phone and tried calling her again. Once. Twice.

The line didn’t even ring.

His jaw tightened slightly as he stared at the screen, a flicker of something sharper passing through his expression. It didn’t occur to him, not even for a second, that she might have blocked his number.

No.

Something else was wrong.

And he wasn’t about to leave without finding out what.

She asked me here. And where is she?

***

Inside, Roxana remained exactly where she had positioned herself—half-hidden, composed, untouchable. Or at least, that was the intention.

"Not enjoying the evening?"

The voice was smooth, lightly amused, and far too close.

Roxana turned her head just enough to acknowledge him, her expression already settling into something polite yet distant. "Enjoyment is a strong word," she replied. "I’d say I’m... observing."

The man beside her chuckled softly, clearly entertained. "That sounds dangerously close to judgment."

"Only for those who give me a reason to judge," she returned, her tone effortless, her gaze finally meeting his.

He was... striking, in an understated way.

Dirty blonde hair, slightly tousled as though he hadn’t cared enough to tame it completely, paired with an easy smile that suggested confidence without arrogance. His green eyes held a sharpness beneath that charm, the kind that missed very little. A square jaw, something she rarely sees these days. He’d probably make a good Superman.

Interesting.

"Then I should be careful," he said, tilting his head slightly. "I’d hate to fall into the wrong category."

"That depends," Roxana replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of her drink. "Do you intend to?"

His smile widened, just a fraction. "Not intentionally."

"Most people don’t," she said. "That’s what makes it so predictable."

For a brief moment, he simply looked at her, as though reassessing something.

Then he laughed... genuinely this time.

"Alright," he admitted, lifting his hands slightly in surrender. "I see I’ve underestimated the competition tonight."

"You assumed there was competition?" Roxana asked, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

"Touché."

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged in a quiet, curious way.

Roxana found herself studying him despite herself—the ease in his posture, the way he carried authority without needing to assert it, the subtle confidence that came from knowing exactly who he was.

And for the briefest moment...

She wondered.

What would she think of him...

If she had never known Alexander?

The thought came uninvited... and left just as quickly.

"Jared Fletcher," he said suddenly, extending his hand toward her, as though deciding the game had gone on long enough without introductions.

The name landed harder than it should have.

Roxana’s fingers stilled around her glass, her gaze sharpening for just a fraction of a second before she masked it.

Of course. Of all people... Of course, it would be him.

Her father’s choice. The man she had been meant to meet tonight. The man who fit perfectly into the world she was trying to stand apart from.

Something in her chest tightened, subtle but undeniable, and the faint light that had lingered in her eyes dimmed, retreating behind something far more controlled.

She set her glass aside before taking his hand, her smile returning, flawless and practiced.

"Roxana," she said.

He studied her for a moment, as though committing the name to memory.

"Would you do me the honor of a dance, Roxana?"

For the briefest second, she hesitated inside, where it mattered. Because this was not just a dance. This was expectation.

Her heart clenched, her posture became hunched thinking about her first and only love. She hated her father for pushing her to it, but she wanted to shake Alexander for leaving her alone like this.

The thought flickered through her, sharp and unwelcome. Then, just as quickly, she buried it.

He doesn’t care about you, Roxana!

When she looked back at Jared, her expression was composed once more, her voice steady.

"Of course," she said.

And as she placed her hand in his, allowing him to lead her toward the dance floor, it felt less like a choice, and more like stepping into something that had already been decided for her.

Meanwhile, at the entrance, Alexander’s hands slowly curled into fists as he caught sight of the man approaching him.

David Hollister.

Even among the polished crowd filtering in and out of the grand doors, his presence was unmistakable—commanding, rigid, carrying the weight of authority like a second skin. He walked toward Alexander without hesitation, his gaze already laced with disdain.

"Even if you had an invitation," David said, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the surrounding murmurs, "you wouldn’t be allowed inside unless I permitted it."

There was a pause, deliberate and suffocating.

"And you," he continued with a scoff, "a selfish man who knows nothing beyond profit, who has never understood what it means to serve his country... You wouldn’t belong in there anyway."

Alexander did not respond immediately.

He drew in a slow breath, holding it for a moment as though restraining something far more volatile than anger. His control was deliberate, practiced, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the effort it took.

This... was nothing.

Tamer than before.

Ten years ago, when he had stood in front of this same man and asked for Roxana’s hand, the words had been harsher, the rejection colder, more absolute. Back then, he had walked away with nothing but pride to hold onto.

This time...

He wasn’t leaving without her.

"Where is she?" he asked.

The question cut cleanly through everything else, stripped of distraction, stripped of pride.

Because nothing else mattered.

Only Roxana mattered.

David’s lips curved into something faintly amused, faintly cruel. "She’s exactly where she should be," he said. "With the man who deserves her."

Alexander’s fingers tightened further, the muscles in his arms hardening as he held himself still.