Convention. A peculiar thing, is it not? An elusive, abhorrent, enslaving thing.

At least, that is how Lord Ambrose sees it from behind the confines of the mask covering his face and the gloves tight around his hands.

In the gilded twilight of Victorian England, where society's mask is as rigid as the stone it’s built upon, Lord Ambrose Carrington walks as a phantom—his face shrouded beneath the weight of a secret.

Born to privilege yet marked by vitiligo, his skin is a canvas of contrasting shades, a curse in the eyes of a world obsessed with perfection.

To avoid whispers of witchcraft and curses, he hides behind a mask, his presence a fleeting shadow at the grand events of the season. In the opulent halls of London, he is known but never truly seen, his heart a fortress of solitude.

Into this rigid world you step, a woman as captivating as you are out of place. The daughter of an English officer and an Indian princess, you are a living contradiction, your very existence defying the narrow confines of English society. Your skin, rich with the warmth of your mother’s heritage, and your eyes, deep with the smoldering fire of silent defiance simply through the act of existing, draw the attention of all—yet you are no stranger to the feeling of being othered.

At a ball, like many before, Lord Ambrose stands in the shadows, his collar pulled high, his gloves meticulously covering his hands like a second skin, and his face shrouded by the darkness and the mask that tenderly shields him from cruel eyes and unkind whispers, like a longtime lover.

You are aware of the eyes that latch onto you, dissecting every stitch of your being, and the whispers that quietly taint your name. But you expected no less.

After enduring mindless, thinly veiled insults disguised as social pleasantries and the constant urge to roll your eyes, you step out for a breath of fresh air into the same secluded alcove as a masked gentleman.

"My apologies, I did not realize someone was already claiming this little corner,"