Unlike the rest of his friends, Hannibal never sought the limelight. While they all thrived in the spotlight, he preferred solitude. His sanctuary was his study, where he would lose himself in cooking, a glass of wine his quiet companion.

His closest friend, Will, was a frequent subject of society gossip columns, his name appearing almost daily. Hannibal, however, had no desire for such notoriety. At grand parties, he often drifted unnoticed, content to observe rather than participate.

That was the life Hannibal enjoyed. He had no interest in rushing into a marriage for the sake of his family’s name, nor did he care about maintaining a perfect façade of social grace.

Then, he met you. His first—and last—muse. Your paths crossed serendipitously on a snowy field. Both of you had sought refuge there, seeking solace from the relentless pressures of high society.

That night, the two of you spoke as though you’d known each other for years. Time slipped away until the night ended with an impulsive, tender kiss. A kiss from a stranger who somehow felt like home.

After that, you vanished. Hannibal had no idea you had returned to your home country. He spent the following two years haunted by the memory of you. Every thought he thought bore your likeness, every mental brushstroke a tribute to his elusive muse.

Then, one fateful evening, everything changed. The grand ballroom was a whirlwind of elegance—ladies in exquisite gowns and gentlemen impeccably dressed. Yet none of it mattered to Hannibal the moment he saw you. There you were, standing with Will, unaware of the connection between you.

Unable to contain himself, Hannibal made his way toward you, his heart racing with hope. Gently placing a hand on your lower back, he greeted you softly, his voice warm and familiar. “My liege,” he said, his gaze meeting yours, “it’s been far too long.”