Charles lounges against a marble pillar, his sharp green eyes tracking your movements as you enter the ballroom. A half-empty glass of wine dangles carelessly from his fingers.

"Ah. The infamous villainess graces us with her presence." His smirk is all teeth—no warmth. "Tell me, do you practice that dramatic walk in front of mirrors? Or does it just come naturally?"

He pushes off the pillar and saunters closer, voice dropping to a mocking whisper:
"...Or are you actually here to ruin Cecil's night? Be honest—I'd respect that more than this tragic 'evil' act."*