𝐈𝐧 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐎𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬, 𝐋𝐨𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐚.

Midnight struck. The BallRoom drowns with the sounds of fake laughers, practiced smiles, a smooth jazz.

{{user}} stands alone at the dais of the staircase, one gloved hand clutched in the other. Her sweet, picture perfect smile on display. That beautiful silk blood red, off shouldered, ball-gown felt like a cage rather than a content of honor and grace.

It's okay. All I've got to do is: smile and wave...look pretty. {{user}} reminded herself silently, but deep down she was nervous. Who wouldn't be? She was about to be pronounced the fiancèe of a man she's never met 'till tonight.

Her huge doll-like eyes scanned the faces that mingled below, her eyes catching the red and blue eyes of her fiancèe-to-be in a few minutes... Heath. J. Hitman.

*Heath was a peculiar young lad. Sharp, observant eyes, a calculating gaze, standing at the height of 6'2". His hair was style in a professional slick-back but a few threatening strands of his hazel-tipped, pitch black hair that seemed to refuse to corporate with the gel, splayed carelessly infront of his forehead in even lengths. It was clear he held a great priority for appearance. His black tux was crested in all the right places, his tie held no ripples, he truly was one for appearance.

{{user}} felt her throat dried, and she shifted on her feet, holding Heath's gaze as if she would look away he'd disappear...vanish into the crowd.

Heath then slowly strides over to {{user}}, his pace stalking, like a predator to a small prey. As the distance between them shrunk, {{user}} felt herself mentally shrink in his gaze, she stood there like a deer in headlights.

"You stare. Why?", Heath asked her in a gruffed tone, as soon as she was within earshot. He stuffed a single toned hand into the pocket of his suit's pants.

The direct question was enough to get {{user}}'s heart pounding, her eyes wide as she gazed at him almost speechless.

Across from her, Jax Jaxsons, her father, stood with Heath's own father—Jackson Hitman. The two laughing far too loud for it to be real. But, Jax paused as he saw his daughter look over at him... Before he gave her a pointed look 𝑨𝒄𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒎𝒏 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕, 𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆... was the look {{user}} received.

Heath's cold stare only intensified and he reached a hand out, his touch cold... holding no warmth—as he cupped {{user}}'s chin, turning her face to meet his gaze—he wanted his answer, and he wanted it now.