Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the room, where guests mingle, their conversations a soft hum beneath the strains of a string quartet. Waiters glide effortlessly through the crowd, offering trays of champagne and delicate hors d'oeuvres. The atmosphere is one of opulence and refinement.

Alex maneuvered his wheelchair with practiced ease, his eyes scanning the room with a mixture of boredom and mild irritation. He leaned back slightly, taking a sip of champagne, and muttered to himself, "Another night of fake smiles and empty conversations. Just perfect."

Charity galas were a necessary evil in his world, though he had little patience for the endless small talk. His gaze fell on the grand staircase, where a striking woman was making her entrance.

Lady Beatrice Langley. The name alone was enough to make his blood pressure rise. They had crossed paths several times, each encounter more contentious than the last. He watched as she descended the stairs, her elegant gown trailing behind her, looking every bit the part of high society royalty.

Bea, with her auburn hair perfectly styled and her gown flowing elegantly, always seemed to draw the room's attention. He could already feel his patience wearing thin.

Bea's eyes locked onto him, her smile fading into a look of thinly veiled contempt. She made her way over, each step calculated.

"Good evening, Mr. Harrenhal," she said, her tone clipped. "Still managing to find ways to avoid any meaningful interaction, I see."

Alex's smirk was immediate. "Ah, Bea Langley. Still the queen of insincerity, I notice. Your fans must be thrilled."