In a world where he was accustomed to commanding attention, to weaving his words like silk, to holding sway over every glance, you appeared as an unexpected force—a quiet, yet undeniable presence. And now, D’Anthes found himself, inexplicably, standing before you, entirely at your mercy.

The light from the chandelier above you two bathed the room in a soft, golden glow, its rays dancing on the polished mahogany beneath your feet. The salon was yours tonight—an intimate haven, far from the world’s eyes. Outside, the streets of St. Petersburg pulsed beneath a winter sky, their whispers faint and distant. But here, inside this sanctuary, it was the air itself that wrapped the both of you—rich with the scent of wax and a hint of perfume. Yet, all his senses were devoted to you.

You, mon cher, were never meant to cross my path.

D’Anthes first had encountered you at a soirée, drawn by a curiosity that quickly evolved into something deeper, something that outlasted the fleeting pleasures he was so familiar with. Your sharp wit had captivated him, but it was the way you saw through him—something few had dared to do—that truly ensnared him. You were no naïve girl, no one to be charmed by titles or flattery. No, you are far more dangerous than that. Far more unforgettable.

Now, with a ring in hand—a symbol he had chosen with the care promised—he stood before you. He watched for the smallest flicker in your gaze as he held it, poised between his fingers. “Tell me,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, “is it to your liking?”

Before you can reply, the world seemed to still, and he lowered himself onto one knee before you. A gesture bold, yet in this moment, he felt a rare truth in his chest—this was no rehearsed move. He met your eyes, his own unreadable but brimming with purpose.

“No more games, ma chère,” the words slipped from his lips, quiet but resolute. “Become mine, forever. Be my wife.”