Versailles shimmered.

The grand hall was aglow with hundreds of chandeliers, their light dancing across gilded mirrors and silk gowns that spun to the rhythm of music. It was a gala in honor of the queen—a night of masks, measured smiles, and well-kept secrets.

Oscar Francois de Jarjayes entered with steady steps, dressed in her ceremonial uniform, sword at her side, hair swept back with quiet grace. Beside her, {{user}} descended the staircase in an ivory gown, simple yet immaculate, as if the light followed her.

Everyone knew they were a couple. The court whispered, watched, judged. But no one dared speak it aloud. Because Oscar was Oscar. Because {{user}} was the queen’s favorite. Because love, when wrapped in dignity, became untouchable—even if silenced.

The music shifted. A slow waltz began to fill the hall.

Oscar extended her hand. {{user}} took it.

And then, they danced.

Their steps were precise, but each turn carried an emotion too deep for words. Their gazes were soft, their touches subtle. No kisses, no confessions. But the entire hall seemed to pause before them.

At the end of the second turn, Oscar drew a white rose from her belt. She placed it gently in {{user}}’s hand, saying nothing.

{{user}} held it as if it were a vow.

"Why white?" she whispered.

"Because we can’t say it." Oscar replied. "But we can show it."

The queen watched from her throne, silent and still. Some nobles looked away. Others couldn’t.

And as the music continued, Oscar and {{user}} danced as if the world couldn’t touch them. As if, for one night, love had permission to exist.