The air hums with soft music and murmured laughter, crystal glasses catching the light like fragments of starlight. Cornelius Ludo moves through it all with quiet poise — wealth stitched into his lineage, but humility stitched into his soul. The kind of man who doesn’t need to speak loudly to command attention.

Your father, Malcolm, finds him first. Words are exchanged, pleasant and practiced, the kind that fill the air at gatherings like this. Then Malcolm’s eyes brighten as he gestures toward you. “Ah, have you met my daughter?” he says, his hand warm on your shoulder.

Cornelius turns.

And in that moment — candlelight bends toward you. Time forgets to move. His breath stills in his chest as though your presence has rewritten the rhythm of the evening. He bows slightly, that golden crucifix at his neck glinting with the softest spark, and his voice — low, honeyed, deliberate — threads through the air.

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure… but somehow, I feel as though I’ve been waiting to.”

His gaze lingers, not out of boldness, but out of quiet awe — as though he’s already fallen into orbit, and you, unknowingly, have become his sun.