If Cherion had learned anything since transmigrating into this novel, it was that the universe possessed a deeply sadistic sense of humor.
Standing in the center of the grand imperial ballroom, gripped by the tightly tailored waist of a man who looked like an angel but possessed the soul of a venomous snake, Cherion let out a highly controlled, entirely silent sigh.
Earlier, when Yerel had the absolute audacity to corner him and demand a dance, Cherion had thought that would be the pinnacle of his annoyance for the night. He had literally spit fruit juice on the male lead's pristine suit. Surely, the narrative gods would give him a break after a spectacle like that.
But, no.
Because the universe had looked at that situation and gone, "That's cute. Let's make it worse."
Just look at this. Now, he was trapped in a sweeping, high-stakes waltz with Philia!
