Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 59: The Winthorp Legacy Dinner(4)

Maximilian’s lips trembled as he pressed them together.

This was not new.

Ever since his father’s death, the man Gabriel Whitmore had once crowned as the future of their legacy, his grandfather’s contempt had settled on him like a verdict already passed. Gabriel believed Maximilian was the reason his son was gone.

And it showed.

In private.

In public.

Even now...dragging his friends into it, staining everything Maximilian touched.

He had learned to endure it. To stand still and let the blows pass through him.

But tonight...

Tonight, Catherine heard it.

And it was different.

It would have been one thing if this were elders correcting youth. That happened everywhere. It was almost expected. But this... this was not a correction.

This was hatred. 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

Sharp. Personal. Undeniable.

Catherine felt it immediately... and the first thing that rose in her chest was... anger.

She despised people who humiliated their own blood in public. Despised it even more when the man doing the humiliating had no moral ground to stand on. Gabriel Whitmore had gambled away generations of wealth, the wealth built by his forefathers brick by brick, and yet he dared to sneer at the grandson who had rebuilt his life with intellect, discipline, and respect.

And he dared to insult Maximilian.

Maximilian... who had once stood above all others... Who had ruled battlefields soaked in blood and fire... Who had never bowed to anyone.

Seriously?

Even in this life, he had published two books. Catherine had seen the way scholars spoke of him, with admiration and with deference. She had seen the respect he commanded without demanding it.

How could his own family treat him like this?

Her decision was made before her mind caught up.

Catherine stepped forward.

She passed Gabriel without sparing him a glance, as though he were nothing more than furniture, and stopped directly in front of Maximilian.

He was standing rigid, jaw tight, eyes lowered.

"Shall we?" she asked gently, holding out her hand.

An invitation.

A rescue.

A door out of humiliation.

Maximilian looked up.

For a fraction of a second, something broke in his eyes... and then he smiled.

That easy, familiar smile he only ever wore for her.

He took her hand.

Together, they turned away, leaving Gabriel Whitmore frozen where he stood, and walked toward the dance floor.

Only after a few steps, only after her heart slowed enough to be heard, did Catherine realize what she had done.

She had come here to find herself a husband.

And she had just offered a dance to be the white knight for her... enemy king.

Her gaze flicked around the hall. Eyes followed them. Whispers would bloom. People would assume she favored Maximilian.

That was dangerous.

That was exactly what she did not need.

"Are you enjoying the evening?"

Maximilian’s voice cut through her thoughts.

She turned to him.

His hair was perfectly set, his expression open and warm, his eyes smiling even when his lips were calm. Even in heels, she reached just above his shoulder—an observation others might call a perfect height difference.

Handsome had never been his problem.

"Wonderfully," she replied.

And it was true.

She had been tense when she arrived, coiled tight beneath all that silk and poise. Somehow, without trying, Maximilian had made the night easier.

Perhaps this was repayment.

Or...

She straightened internally.

This was in the rules.

External appearances demand coordination.

He had upheld his end of their arrangement. Now she would uphold hers.

That was all.

This was nothing more than following the rules she herself had set.

It wasn’t as though she cared for him. No. Of course, she didn’t.

She focused ahead, schooling her expression into calm indifference.

And maybe, hopefully, someone watching would see her dancing and decide she was worth the challenge.

Maybe someone else would ask her next.

Hopefully.

But for now...

Catherine drew in a careful breath, and they stepped onto the dance floor. Above them, a massive chandelier loomed, its crystal prisms scattering light across the polished wood beneath their feet: a floor made not for standing, but for yielding.

The orchestra sat close, strings swelling the air with classical precision. No rock. No pop. Only Beethoven, Pachelbel, Bach—music that belonged to an older world.

"Just this song," Catherine said softly. She didn’t want to owe him much in this life.

Before their bodies could settle into place, the music ended.

Maximilian smiled, one brow lifting.

Catherine released a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. "Fine. The next song."

She noticed the couple beside them signal the orchestra. Catherine had lived in another century once—but in this lifetime, she had never stood beneath chandeliers like this, never moved among silk and murmured anticipation. Her gaze flicked back to Maximilian.

"They asked for a waltz," he said.

Catherine sighed. "I forgot all the steps."

She had once been trained relentlessly—every formal dance drilled into her bones—before steel and blood replaced ballrooms. A war queen didn’t waltz often.

"No, you didn’t," Maximilian said, a smug curve to his mouth.

She lowered her head, tongue briefly touching her lips, grounding herself. When she looked back up, his expression hadn’t changed. If anything, it had sharpened.

"It depends on who leads," he said, eyes glinting as he winked.

And the past rose unbidden.

She had been thirteen. Too young to name what twisted in her chest when he was near—resentment threaded with longing. She despised him when he hovered too close and felt the absence of him like a missing limb when he was gone.

Every year, he came for the Winter Ball in Elyndra. They didn’t have winter—not truly—but they honored the solstice. And by tradition, they danced together.

That year, she had discovered he’d grown. Impossibly so. Taller, broader—changed in ways she wasn’t prepared for. He already called her short stalk, and she’d braced herself for humiliation as they took the floor.

But he hadn’t teased her.

When she struggled with the height difference, fingers tightening reflexively in his sleeve, he had only smiled and murmured...

"Don’t worry. It just depends on the one who leads."

Now—

Standing before him again, Catherine’s heartbeat stuttered.

The music began, slow and deliberate.

Maximilian’s hand settled at her back: formal placement, textbook perfect.

Not possessive.

Not distant.

Yet the warmth of his palm bled through the thin fabric of her dress almost instantly. His fingers rested just below her shoulder blade, steady, certain... aware of exactly how much pressure he was applying. Enough to guide. Not enough to claim.

Her body responded before her mind did.

She placed her hand on his shoulder. Beneath her palm, his muscle shifted solid and alive. Their joined hands lifted, fingers aligning with practiced ease.

Their proximity closed.

She could feel the heat of him now. His breath, measured and calm, brushed faintly against her temple. The scent of him... clean and understated, slid into her awareness far too easily.

Her posture adjusted, not rigidly, but balanced, as if something ancient inside her had straightened its spine.

He led with the opening box step. Slow. Orthodox.

Her feet answered without hesitation.

No uncertainty.

No conscious recall.

Her body knew.

As though memory lived deeper than thought.

Maximilian felt it the moment she moved.

Her timing was exact. Her weight transferred seamlessly. When he shifted, she was already there... anticipating, aligning.

His thumb pressed once against her hand. Barely a touch. A turn approaching.

She responded before the cue fully formed.

He glanced down, not to guide, not to teach, but to confirm what he was already feeling.

Her gaze lifted at the same instant.

Their eyes locked.

The space between them tightened... not distance, but tension. Awareness sharpened. Breath slowed.

And something sharp passed between them.