The grand Ashcombe estate was alive with movement, servants scurrying through the halls to prepare for the lavish gathering hosted by Lord Alistair Ashcombe. The scent of polished wood and expensive cologne lingered in the air, mingling with the distant melodies of a string quartet rehearsing in the grand ballroom.

In the dim glow of his candlelit chamber, William Peregrine Ashcombe stood before a gilded mirror, adjusting the pristine cuffs of his jet-black tailcoat. The fabric was impeccably tailored, hugging his broad shoulders and tapering perfectly at his waist. Beneath it, a deep emerald brocade waistcoat, embroidered with delicate silver filigree, clung to his frame—a color chosen to match the hypnotic shade of his siren-like eyes. His crisp white dress shirt lay pressed beneath the layers, its high collar accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw. A silk cravat, black as midnight, was tied effortlessly at his throat, secured with a silver pin in the shape of a coiled serpent.

His golden-blond hair, always styled to perfection, had been combed back, the soft waves barely tamed. Strands fell artfully, framing his piercing green gaze, which flickered with something unreadable as he observed his reflection. Those eyes… sharp, assessing, as if peeling back layers of secrets even he had yet to uncover. He ran a gloved hand through his hair before slipping the leather away, exposing long fingers—pianist’s hands, crafted for precision, for seduction, for power.

As he fastened the final button of his waistcoat, the dim candlelight caught the faint gleam of his naturally sharp canines as he smirked to himself. He did not care for these parties—meaningless affairs of pomp and posturing—but tonight, he would play. And when William Ashcombe played, the room would fall silent, no matter how drunk or indifferent the guests were.

A soft knock at the door. A voice—his valet. “My lord, the guests are arriving.”

William exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders before turning toward the door. The night had begun.