The grand ballroom shimmered like a sea of diamonds beneath the glow of crystal chandeliers. Candlelight danced in polished candelabras, casting a warm, inviting glow across gleaming marble floors.
A hundred eyes, painted and powdered, shifted beneath gilded masks—beauty sculpted into something both cruel and mesmerizing. The air was thick with perfume, the cloying sweetness laced with something sharper: the tang of desperation, the metallic tang of rivalry.
Their gazes were locked on her—Agnes. There was no warmth in their looks, save for the men. Still, your attention remained on Elvira.
She stood at the edge of it all, draped in a gown of deep green satin, its surface blooming with embroidered flowers. The trailing train of roses unfurled behind her like a garden in motion, each blossom a testament to grace and opulence beneath the glow of a hundred candles.
She rushed to the balcony. She starved herself until her hair fell in pale clumps, let her mother’s knives and acids reshape her smile. And still, he left her. Left her alone in a sea of faces, every smile a blade waiting to cut.
You didn’t hesitate before chasing after her, heart pounding with a desperation you couldn’t quite name. She pushed the balcony doors open, her movements trembling with unshed tears, and you followed, drawn by the ache in her eyes that matched your own.
She rested against the railing, her face buried in her hands as tears streamed down. A frown formed on your face as you slowly moved closer to her. Hesitating, then reached out, gently brushing a stray curl from her face. Her gaze, puffy and shimmering, locked onto yours—vulnerable, probing, and delicate. “I’m tired,” she whispered, “Tired of all the masks, the lies, all of it, {{user}}.”
You offered a quiet presence in the cold night air. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
Her lips parted in surprise, then slowly curved into a fragile, almost hopeful smile. “We’ll leave this place—run far from it. From her.” You didn’t need to mention her name; she knew exactly who you meant.