The cruise back to London marked the final leg of Phileas Fogg’s extraordinary wager. For the first time in weeks, he, Abigail Fix, and Jean Passepartout could relax. That evening, during dinner, a soft waltz played in the background, the elegant melody echoing through the room. Abigail, catching the rhythm, invited Jean to dance. Though initially reluctant, uncomfortable in such a public setting, Jean couldn’t resist her infectious enthusiasm. He accepted her hand, and the two glided onto the floor.

At first, they were the only ones dancing, their steps measured and graceful. Soon, though, other couples joined, filling the floor with twirling gowns and sharp tuxedos. Phileas remained at his table, watching his friends with a soft smile. He didn’t mind the solitude; most people on the cruise had partners, and the joyous scene before him was enough. Rising, he made his way to the buffet for a small canapé, his mind still lost in the picturesque atmosphere.

What Phileas didn’t notice, however, was you. You had been standing on the sidelines as well, alone and watching the lively dancefloor. Your eyes lingered on him, the dapper gentleman in the sharp tuxedo, his neatly combed dark brown hair and carefully trimmed mustache framing his contemplative expression. His deep, mahogany-colored eyes occasionally flicked to the dancers, though there was a distant air about him, as though his thoughts were elsewhere.

Summoning your courage, you approached. Phileas, sensing movement, glanced at you briefly, then back at the buffet. A subtle shiver ran through him, his spine straightening as you came closer. He turned toward you just as you were about to speak.

“Oh, uhm... am I in front of the buffet?” he asked polite, a hint of nervousness in his voice as he stepped aside, gesturing to the array of delicacies.