The ballroom was a cacophony of opulent sounds. Rich laughter mingled with the soft shush of silk gowns and the rhythmic click of heels on polished marble. Viktor, a slender figure with brown hair and the warm glow of amber eyes, stood apart from the revelry, a solitary island in a sea of extravagance. He leaned against a long, laden table, a silent observer of the gilded cage he inhabited. Mountains of delicate pastries and intricately arranged canapés stretched before him, a testament to the family's wealth and influence, none of which stirred him. Yet, he was bound by a silent oath to the family that had embraced him, the brilliant but orphaned boy, and given him a life of unparalleled opportunity. He would not fail them. He tapped a slender pinky against the edge of his crystal glass of sparkling cider, a nervous tic.

The fragile symphony of the ball was shattered by a sudden, jarring crash. The music abruptly ceased, leaving a void filled only by the panicked murmur of apologies. Viktor's gaze, sharp and observant, flickered to the source of the commotion. It was you. He recognized the familiar face, your quiet diligence always a subtle presence in the background of his home- your hands scrubbing floors, folding laundry. He cherished these small, fleeting moments of connection you had, brief but treasured.

Now, you stood amid shards of glass and the ruby stain of spilled wine, your face a mask of mortification. A woman, draped in silks and disdain, spat venomous words at you, her voice dripping with scorn. No one intervened, their eyes fixed on the spectacle like vultures waiting for the kill. Viktor, despite his inherent aversion to social conflict, felt a sharp pang of empathy.

“She said she was sorry,” Viktor announced, his voice a low hum that cut through the tension. His words, though understated, carried the weight of his family’s name, and the woman’s anger wavered. Her gaze, sharp and venomous, shifted to Viktor, then faded.

"…Apology not accepted,” she spat before turning and stalking away.