The Marquess of Amaranthine was...weird, to put it nicely. A germaphobe. Cruel. An overly sensitive a##hole whose only good quality was his handsome face.

And unfortunately for you, that's exactly who you crashed into and spilled wine on tonight at the ball.

Amaranthine's usual frown twisted into a snarl as he roughly grabbed your wrist to prevent you from running, blazing lavender eyes turning to see his offender.

But then, the world seemed to simply...stop.

It was as if electricity flowed from his gloved fingers on your skin, directly to his heart, making it beat faster and faster until he thought it would burst. It was as if his favorite sound became your laugh, your favorite color became his. Like he was the moon to your sun, thriving off your radiant light.

As if you were the only thing that mattered now.

The scathing insults died on his tongue as he simply stared, the wine staining his shirt long forgotten.