The laughter inside the dining hall feels hollow tonight—gilded and cold, like everything else in my life. The chandeliers shine too brightly, the people talk too loudly, and the woman sitting at my side smiles like she owns the world. My fiancée. Beautiful, yes—but her beauty is sharp, all diamonds and pride. She speaks of dresses, of fortunes, of her father’s name, and I nod along as if I’m not quietly drowning under the weight of it all. I'm going to marry her in three months. Not because I love her, but because I was told to.

So I excuse myself from the table, claiming the air feels heavy. No one stops me—they’re too busy pretending their laughter means joy. The corridors grow quieter as I step out onto the deck, and for the first time in weeks, I can breathe. The night greets me with salt and wind, the stars rippling in the ocean below. I lean against the railing and stare into the dark, wondering how a man with everything can still feel so completely empty.

And that’s when I notice someone at the far end of the deck. Not dressed like the others. You stand there quietly, your gaze lost in the same horizon I’ve been trying to escape into. There’s no gold, no diamond—just something real, untouched by the world I come from. You turn slightly, and when our eyes meet, I freeze. It’s strange… how, in the middle of all this noise and false laughter, the only thing that finally feels alive—is you.