Chapter 64: The Winthorp Legacy Dinner (9)- First Meeting

The man holding her looked down.

And Catherine’s mind went utterly blank.

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the feel of his arm firm around her waist, the warmth radiating through fabric and bone, the steady strength anchoring her where she had nearly fallen. The music, the chatter, the glittering hall… all of it faded into a distant hum.

She had known.

After Maximilian. After Bernice. After Sebastian.

Somewhere deep inside, she had known he would be here too.

But knowing and seeing were different things entirely.

He was young.

Too young.

The man she had met in her past life had been thirty-seven when she was eighteen—a man already carved by war, duty, and a life lived long before her. Back then, his face was sharpened iron, his gaze cold and assessing, his voice deep, dismissive, and economical. He was a king who spoke little and commanded much.

This man…

This man, looking at her was warm.

Young. Handsome. Unburdened.

His features were familiar yet softened by youth, his black hair neatly styled, his eyes bright with something dangerously close to amusement. And then he smiled.

A real smile.

“Yes,” he said lightly, voice smooth and pleasant, “I’d be honored to dance with you, milady.”

Catherine stared at him.

Her fingers were still twisted into his velvet lapel. His hand was still secure at her waist. Her heart thundered so hard she was certain he could feel it through the thin layers of silk between them.

Was he always this handsome?

Always this… carefree?

“Mr. Blackwood!”

Ashley Renfield’s sharp voice cracked through the moment like glass shattering.

Catherine gasped, reality rushing back all at once. She pulled away abruptly, smoothing her gown with trembling hands, forcing her breath to steady even as her pulse refused to calm.

Blackwood.

So that was it.

The Blackwood heir—one of the men on her carefully constructed shortlist—stood before her.

And he was her husband from her past life.

Her heart pounded harder, painfully so.

She didn’t know why.

Was it shock? Recognition? Or something far more dangerous—something her mind refused to name?

“I wanted to thank you for sending us the invitation,” Ashley said sweetly. “We, Helios Biotek, are eternally grateful for your support from BioQuant.”

Jonathan stood beside her, silent, watchful.

Catherine’s gaze drifted back to Dorian Blackwood.

He had already withdrawn his hand. The smile she’d seen seconds ago was gone, replaced by a composed neutrality as he folded his fingers once, then adjusted his bowtie with practiced ease.

He’d sent the invite.

To Ashley.

The thought twisted unpleasantly in her chest.

Catherine turned away. She needed to find Bernice—now. If Ashley were distracted, this might be her only chance. Bernice still wasn’t answering her calls. Maybe her phone was on silent. Maybe…

She didn’t even manage a single step.

A gentle tug caught her glove.

Catherine froze.

She turned slowly.

Dorian was holding the edge of her glove between his fingers, the contact light, deliberate.

Her breath stuttered.

Her knees weakened.

“My dance?” he asked softly.

She could only stare at him.

Up close, he looked even more unreal. Too smooth. Too alive. In her previous life, he had rarely spoken—action had always been his language. When he did speak, it had been in short phrases, commands, and decisions that shaped the fate of nations.

This man spoke easily.

Ashley’s jaw tightened. Catherine noticed.

Jonathan looked away.

Every instinct screamed at Catherine to leave. To retreat. To put distance between herself and the past that was reaching for her with steady, patient hands.

But strategically…

Staying was better.

“…Sure,” Catherine said at last, forcing a smile that felt fragile but convincing. “Mr. Blackwood.”

Dorian Blackwood turned to Ashley, courteous and unyielding. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said calmly, “I’d like to spend my evening with the lovely lady here.”

He held out his hand.

Catherine hesitated only a fraction of a second before placing hers in his.

Her fingers trembled.

He didn’t comment on it.

Together, they stepped onto the dance floor—past the lights, past the watching eyes, past the invisible line where past and present began to blur once more.

Claire de Lune flowed through the hall like a held breath.

Soft. Melancholic. Almost reverent.

The first notes unfurled gently, and Catherine felt them slip beneath her skin, threading through places she had sealed shut long ago. The chandeliers dimmed to a hushed glow, conversations dissolving into a distant murmur, as if the world itself had decided to give them space.

Dorian’s hand settled at her waist once more—steady, unhurried. Not claiming. Not retreating. Simply there. His other hand held hers, warm and sure, guiding without pressure, as though he trusted her body to find its own rhythm.

They began to move.

Catherine lifted her gaze instinctively…

… and immediately looked away.

Her heart refused to behave.

It beat too fast, too loud, an erratic thing trapped in her chest. She focused instead on what felt safer: the immaculate fall of his sleeve, the quiet scent of something clean and understated, the precise restraint in every step he took. He danced the way he did everything—controlled, deliberate, never wasting a motion.

Her eyes flicked back to his face for a fleeting second.

He was already looking at her.

Not scanning the room. Not watching the crowd. Not distracted by the whispers curling at the edges of the hall.

Just her.

His gaze was softer than she remembered. Dark eyes warm, attentive, his lips curved into a faint, unguarded smile that did something dangerous to her composure.

And just like that, the past surged forward. The music slowly sharpened to the sound of the soldiers training in the distance.

She remembered the first time she had stood before him.

Not Catherine—Katerina.

She had been eighteen, trembling beneath borrowed courage, standing at the threshold of the king’s command tent. The banners of his army, the same banners that had once promised fire and ruin to her homeland, fluttered above her head. Her escort had nudged her forward when her legs refused to move.

King Dorian did not rise when she entered.

He sat behind a heavy campaign table littered with maps, missives, and weapons, torchlight carving his face into sharp planes of authority. Thirty-seven. Broad-shouldered. Battle-worn. A man shaped by war rather than softened by courtly graces. A father. A widower. A conqueror.

And now…

The man she was meant to serve for a single night in exchange for her nation’s survival.

Katerina bowed because she had no choice.

“Your Majesty.”

With a single, indifferent gesture, he dismissed the soldiers. No ceremony. No kindness. Then he waved her forward as though she were no more than another term of surrender written into a treaty.

Her knees had nearly given way, but she obeyed.

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