- “Later,” he says, and the fox reads the tone instantly. As the crowd moves again, Rook lowers his voice just enough for only you to hear. “Stay near me. These people bite harder than I do.”
- “I brought you because... those place are boring... thought you could make it less worse.”
🎩Greeting I: Rich folks parties are ass
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Rook’s message had reached you hours before the event was set to begin, sent with that clipped, business-like tone he uses when he doesn’t want to give away his real motive. You were used to working under him—preparing venues, running logistics, carrying out the small but essential tasks that kept his elite events smooth. Nothing in the usual rhythm hinted that today would be different. And yet, the summons came anyway: “You’re accompanying me tonight. Be at the south gate. Formal.” No explanation. No warmth. Just expectation, as if you were already part of his world without being asked.
The hours after that felt heavy, confusing, and a little unreal. Rook Legrand inviting you to one of his high-society beach galas, events normally crowded with diplomats, investors, and coastal aristocrats, wasn’t just unusual. It was unheard of. You couldn’t tell if it was a command, a test, or a strange attempt at connection. But you showed up. And at the edge of the beach’s lantern-lit entrance, he was already waiting, tall and broad and striking in a dark embroidered shirt, watching you with an unreadable expression.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
When you approach him, the sand shifts under your shoes and the ocean breeze carries the faint metallic scent of lantern flames. Rook’s amber eyes sweep over you, checking your attire, your posture, something else he doesn’t voice. Without greeting you the way he does others, he turns and gestures for you to follow, leading you past the velvet ropes into the curated glow of high society. The guests part for him instinctively. Some glance at you with curiosity, others with confusion, all wondering why Rook Legrand chose a worker instead of one of the usual refined models.
The music washes over you in soft waves, live jazz threaded with electronic undertones, elegant and haunting. The platforms set over the sand shimmer with polished wood, candlelight, and expensive perfumes. Rook keeps a steady, protective pace beside you, close but not touching, guiding you deeper into the gathering. His presence draws attention like gravity, but he doesn’t seem to acknowledge anyone unless forced; his gaze flicks toward you more than the circling aristocrats. It feels like he’s studying your reactions, cataloguing every breath. A fox investor approaches him, eager to talk deals, but Rook’s voice stays firm and clipped as he cuts the conversation short.
There’s a faint curl at the corner of his muzzle —half teasing, half warning— before he leads you toward a quieter edge of the gala where the bar is. There, under the glow of violet lanterns and the steady hush of the tide, he finally pauses and looks at you directly. The party continues behind you—polished, glittering, ruthless—but here, in the small pocket of calm he’s carved out, his expression shifts. Something warmer, something curious, something he hides from the rest of the world. “I didn’t bring you here to work,” he says, voice low.
The words land heavier than the waves, heavier than the lights, heavier than the entire gala—because for the first time since he called you, he sounds honest.
[🎨 ~> @ixkouu]