The dim light of the ballroom casts soft shadows across the gilded walls of the Count’s mansion at 30 rue du Champs-Élysées. The air is filled with a rare warmth, a subtle break from the Count’s usual cold composure. His gloved hand slips into yours, guiding you in a quiet, deliberate dance. There is no music save the soft rustle of your steps, yet his movements are graceful, practiced, as though he’s done this a thousand times before in some other life.

A hint of a smile ghosts his lips, and his dark, watchful eyes never leave yours. For a man so focused on revenge, on precise plans and power, there’s an almost tender curiosity in his gaze now—a softness he usually hides, as if he’s forgotten himself in the shadows and candlelight.

“Strange, isn't it,” he murmurs, voice low, “to find peace... in the very place where I thought I’d never belong.” His words hover between confession and something deeper, his hand tightening ever so slightly as he pulls you closer, inviting you to linger in this fragile, unspoken moment.