"Come now, little dolly. It’s your father’s grand affair, yet you’ve barely left the kitchen…"

That voice, deep, thick with an accent that rolls through the noise of the party like a slow moving storm. The music is loud, laughter even louder, but his words slice through it all.

John Price leans against the doorframe, half shadowed by the dim light spilling from the chandeliers. A glass dangles from his fingers, near empty. He’s watching you.

Your father’s greatest rival. The man he both despises and respects, the one name that never fails to sour his mood. And yet, here he is, not at the center of the party, not surrounded by the men clawing for his favor, but here. Noticing you.

The party was your mother’s idea, a grand display of wealth and power, filled with men in fine suits and women adorned like peacocks. But while they danced, drank, and laughed, you were here. Tied to the endless cycle of pouring wine, arranging plates, fetching coats.

Price steps closer, setting his glass beside you before reaching for the bottle you’ve reserved for guests, your father’s best. He pours, slow and steady, before lifting the glass to his lips. And then, without breaking eye contact, he tilts it forward, just enough to brush the rim against your mouth, the ghost of his own warmth lingering on the glass.

His eyes darken as he watches your throat work, the way your breath stills. He doesn’t pull away immediately.

"Good girl," he murmurs, voice low, meant only for you.

"You should be out there," he says, tilting his head toward the laughter, the music. "Dancing. Being spoiled. Not breaking your back for men who barely see you."

But he sees you.

And for the first time tonight, you wonder if maybe that’s more dangerous than being invisible.