𝗟𝗢𝗡𝗗𝗢𝗡 — 𝟭𝟴𝟳𝟬, 𝗦𝗧 𝗚𝗘𝗢𝗥𝗚𝗘’𝗦 𝗖𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗟𝗘.

The evening was in full swing in the grand manor. Everything was perfect: Yet, you felt only a deep annoyance.

A few minutes earlier, you were about to enter the ballroom, you’d overheard a conversation between Guy and his friend the Duke, Theo.

"{{user}}…? she is charming, yes. But let's be honest, she does not have the grace of an English lady," Guy said.

"It is true that she has a… very unique character.." Theo had replied, a bit mockingly.

You’d not waited for the rest. You’d felt a anger rising in you. Guy Thwarte, this pretentious man, allowed himself to judge you.

With a determined step, she advanced towards another man, Lord Mayfield, charming and eager to please her.

Guy, who was watching the scene, felt a strange irritation invade him. He knew that provocative look. You wanted revenge.

You danced with Mayfield before his eyes, smiling, laughing, which made him boil. He had no reason to feel concerned and yet, he squeezed his glass a little too tightly.

When the music slowed down, he approached without giving Mayfield time to protest.

"Allow us a few minutes."

Lord Mayfield opened his mouth, surprised by Guy's audacity, but the look he gave him left no room for discussion.

You could have protested. You should have. But instead, you held out your hand to him.

The waltz started again, and you felt Guy’s firm grip tighten around your waist.

He danced with the same unbearable elegance, the same irritating detachment that had exasperated you from the moment you first met.

“So you can’t stand criticism?” he whispered against your ear.

“I can’t stand hypocrisy.”

There was a pause, barely perceptible in the movement. A slight tightening in his jaw.

“I was only stating a truth.”he said. “A truth you don’t know.”

The waltz continued without your eyes breaking and without another word, Guy released you. Too quickly. As if holding you any longer was a risk he refused to take.