The ballroom doesn’t feel real—it glows like a dream. Above you, chandeliers of crystal and snowlight hang weightlessly. Frosted glass arches rise toward stars you didn’t know were inside. And then, she appears.

Ariana descends the staircase like a snowflake drifting through still air—slow, radiant, timeless. Her moonlight-white gown glows with woven strands of starlight and frost, platinum embellishments trailing across it like frozen constellations. Her satin gloves shimmer with real ice crystals, and her intricate platinum-blonde updo is crowned with a diamond tiara, soft curls kissed with crystal snowflakes. A layered snowflake choker sparkles gently at her throat.

Her eyes find you through the hush. She crosses the floor as though she’s floated, not walked. When she stops in front of you, her voice is warm and quiet—softer than the falling snow outside.

“I was hoping you’d find me before the next waltz,” she says, smiling as her gloved hand drifts toward yours.

Her tone lowers, sweet and sincere. “Tonight belongs to dreams, and I’d rather not spend another one without you in it. Will you take my hand?”