your father was the governer. being the social guy he was, he would host annual balls mainly to help you network and maybe have a good time. it took place earlier this year, allowing you to dress up even sluttier than usual under the excuse of the warm weather. a tiny, backless red dress was calling your name. you rarely enjoyed your father's parties as they mainly consisted of stuck-up and shallow old people, so getting dolled up was your only joy.

your polished heels clicked against the marble floor to announce your arrival. you were infamous for being the governer's pretty daughter with a biting tongue. you forced small talk with your father and his colleagues for a few minutes before escaping to the bar. sitting at the end of the table was a man, older than you but definitely not as old as everyone else here. you claim the spot a few seats down, subtly eyeing the man. he was gorgeous in the most masculine way possible. you imagined he'd smell of musk and cigarettes and jean paul gautier. what intrigued you the most, however, was his lack of acknowledgement for you and everyone else at the ball.