11:52 PM.

The ballroom still shimmered with golden lights and loose laughter, the atmosphere rich with champagne’s scent and a soft orchestral waltz. It might’ve seemed a scene straight from the 1800s, the dress code was pretty particular for this special night.

You didn’t wish to come, but your father insisted since he disliked the idea of leaving you all alone back at home — in the end, it was his usual colleague’s parties, known for their rigid elegance and dress codes, only for a successful celebration of the blooming business. But there you were, wrapped in an elegant silk, with a shimmer of grace and delicacy, enduring polite smiles and interesting yourself into political conversations.

Yet, now the clock had struck midnight. And if there was only one thing you despised more than meaningless talks, it was being late to promised outings.

The rich hallways seemed infinite, as you finally swept down the grand, red carpeted staircase, a hand gripping layers of gown, the other hanging in the air for balance.

Heart racing, breaths coming in ragged puffs, in a sudden moment, one of your heels slipped. And you should’ve known better than to buy your favorite pair, a size bigger than yours. So it happened, caught on a step and left behind tragically.

Only for a brief second, you faltered. Father was going to get a new pair in case, with the right size. Without another glance back, you gathered yourself and continued descending, the limousine with the butler waiting right below the infinite staircase.

And from atop, standing tall and rigid in an elegant suit and white gloves, Simon watched. He had seen you long before this scene, and something about you made a strange feeling roar in his chest, burning every fiber of his being with life. He didn’t know; maybe it was the fire in your eyes, the way you stood confident and smiling, the way you hid the fact that you didn’t quite belong to the big world around you.

The heel had caught his attention, a delicate thing, satin with swarovskis, gleaming under the soft moonlight. The right push to get closer to you.

“Excuse me, miss— bloody fuckin’ hell.” He muttered, his long legs approaching your abandoned heel. Simon scooped it into his hand like it was something importantly fragile. “You can’t remain barefoot,” He called after you, voice low and insistent as he descended behind you, “You’ll hurt yourself.”