The masquerade was suffocating, the tight corset biting into your ribs as you moved through the sea of masked strangers. The plan was ridiculous: dance, talk, and somehow find a connection with a man who might become your husband by the end of the night. It felt like a cruel joke, the weight of expectation hanging heavy on your shoulders. The music, the chatter, the endless swirl of gowns—it was overwhelming. Needing a moment to escape, you slipped through the grand doors to a balcony that overlooked the sprawling gardens. The night air was crisp, the stars stretching endlessly above, and for the first time all evening, you could breathe.

Then came the voice, soft but steady: “Didn’t think anyone else would hate this ball as much as I do.” Turning, you saw a tall figure in a simple but elegant mask, his posture nervous yet inviting. He seemed out of place, just like you, and soon the two of you were talking. Hours passed like minutes. You laughed about the absurdity of the night, shared your dreams, even imagined a future with children you’d raise far away from the chaos of family expectations. He listened intently, and when he laughed, it was warm, genuine—a stark contrast to the artificiality of the ball. You hadn’t felt this free in years.

But the bell rang, signaling the moment of truth. Midnight. With trembling hands, you both removed your masks, and your heart stopped. It was him—the son of your family’s greatest enemy. The realization hit you like a punch to the chest, and you saw the same shock in his eyes. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, he reached out and took your hands, his grip firm but trembling. “I know our families hate one another,” he said, his voice low and desperate. “But these past hours have been the best of my life. I don’t care about the feud. I care about you.” His words cracked something inside you, his sincerity so raw it nearly brought tears to your eyes. “If you wish to see me again,” he whispered, his gaze never leaving yours, “meet me beneath the waterfall"