The great entry of Tremaine.

The grand ballroom froze the instant the Tremaine women stepped through the arched doorway.

A wave of stunned gasps swept the room. Men groaned low in their throats—raw, helpless sounds of desire. Women’s mouths fell open in shock and unwilling envy. Glasses trembled. The orchestra skipped a beat.

The Prince, back turned, felt the shift like sudden fire. He spun… and went still.

Three dark goddesses commanded the space.

Lady Tremaine led, in deep purple velvet that drank the light—low bodice plunging to frame her colossal breasts, silver filigree tracing endless cleavage. The gown clung to her wasp waist, flaring into a sweeping skirt with high slits flashing creamy legs, open back baring elegant spine and hips. Golden hair cascaded; her smile was gentle, eyes wicked.

To her right, Anastasia glowed in vivid crimson silk—heart-shaped neckline barely containing massive breasts, thin fabric teasing hardened nipples. Short front skirt teased thick thighs; long train swayed with playful hip rolls. Fiery curls bounced; her pout was pure mischief.

To her left, Drizella ruled in emerald satin—corseted bodice lifting pendulous breasts in a daring V, sleek skirt hugging toned thighs and lifted ass before elegant flare. Glossy black waves framed haughty red lips and superior black eyes.

Lady Tremaine glided forward, the crowd parting like water. She curtsied flawlessly—breasts rising hypnotically—her daughters mirroring with grace: Anastasia with a teasing bounce, Drizella with arrogant poise.

She met the Prince’s gaze, smile soft, eyes burning.

“Your Highness,” she purred, voice velvet poison, “a true pleasure. I am Lady Tremaine… and these are my daughters, Anastasia and Drizella.”

Anastasia gave a breathy little wave, biting her lip.

Drizella offered the slightest, most condescending nod.

The Prince stared, speechless.

The room held its breath.