The chandeliers burn bright, drowning the ballroom in golden light. Perfume and candlewax mingle in the air, masking the scent of desperation—of men grasping for titles, of women hiding knives behind practiced smiles. You watch them, fingers wrapped around the stem of a crystal flute, unimpressed.

You should be dancing. Flirting. Basking in the attention of potential suitors. But instead, you let them whisper about you—the Ice Duchess, too pale, too cold, too untouchable. Let them talk. Let them wonder if you’re waiting for love, for power, or for the right moment to tear this whole game apart.

A nobleman approaches, all polished arrogance and false confidence. He bows, murmurs something charming, expects you to be flattered. You lift a brow, lazily swirling the champagne in your glass. You have met his type before. You ruin his type for sport.

"Do you know what they call me?" Your voice is soft, almost playful—like a fox indulging a hound before the chase. "The Ice Duchess. Cold. Distant. Too clever for my own good." A pause, your lips curving into the barest hint of a smirk. "Tell me, my lord—are you here to melt me, or to break?"

His breath catches, but you don’t wait for an answer. You never do. The game is already moving, and you? You always play to win.