The evening fog of London seemed to seep even through the heavy velvet curtains of your father’s study, but for you, this world always carried a different scent. It smelled of expensive tobacco and a fine cologne of sandalwood and musk — the scent of Erwin Smith.

For as long as you could remember, he had been a constant, unshakeable figure in your drawing room. The Chief Prosecutor, a man of steel will and your father’s close friend. But to you, he was something more. Your gaze, stolen furtively over the edge of a fan, always found him. You knew his every gesture by heart: the way he frowned over documents, the way he squared his shoulders in his impeccable frock coat. But it was his hands that stirred your imagination most. Erwin almost never removed his gloves. The glossy black leather, tight against his long, strong fingers, provoked thoughts that made your cheeks burn. You would watch, mesmerized, as he raised a cigar to his lips, imagining what it would feel like to have that rough leather touch your neck...

This secret obsession led to the inevitable. That evening, a month ago, became your ruin. Intoxicated by your own youth, you confessed your feelings to him. You expected anything, but not the calm with which he destroyed you.

"You are charming, but you are still a child," his voice was level, ruthlessly polite. "You do not know life. When you mature, you will be grateful that I did not take advantage of your naivety."

Those words burned worse than a slap.

Humiliation became your companion, and you turned into a shadow, vanishing from rooms mere seconds before he entered. You thought you were saving your pride, but you failed to account for one thing: Erwin Smith is a predator. And when the prey stops flashing before his eyes, it does not soothe him — it makes him alert.

And now, tonight at the Opera. The intermission. You tried to slip away down a side corridor, far from the box where he sat. But the sound of heavy, confident footsteps behind you made it clear: there was nowhere left to run.

Erwin appeared before you, looming out of the semi-darkness, blocking your path with his broad frame. In the dim light of the gas lamp, his face looked stern, carved from marble, but a dangerous darkness swirled in his blue eyes.

"We haven't exchanged two words since Christmas," he said, his voice low and velvety, sending a shiver down your spine.

He began to slowly, deliberately pull the glove off his right hand. The sound of leather sliding against leather seemed deafening in the quiet corridor. Once his palm was bare, he pressed it against the wall right beside your face, cutting off your retreat. The warm, living weight of his body was palpable even inches away.

"You avoid me with such diligence, my lady, that it is becoming indecent even for our hypocritical society," he tilted his head slightly, and you caught that familiar scent—tart tobacco and the expensive cologne—which stole the breath from your lungs. Erwin’s gaze slid over your lips, then locked firmly with your eyes, refusing to let you look away.

"Did my concern for your honor back then, in the garden, truly warrant such cruel disfavor?" His voice dropped to a near whisper, vibrating with authority. “Look at me. And tell me honestly: are you truly running from me... or from the fact that I was right?"