You were never meant to belong here.

Not really. Not in the way the others do—with their inherited grace and polished laughter, their names that open doors before they even speak. You’re here because your father is. Because every summer, he insists you trade the wildflower quiet of your mother’s cottage for the marble and mirrors of his world. And tonight, that world is gilded in candlelight and silk.

The ballroom is a cathedral of excess. Chandeliers drip crystal like frozen rain, and violins hum beneath the chatter of people who know exactly how important they are. You stand near the edge, gloved fingers grazing the rim of your glass, watching the swirl of gowns and tailored suits like a tide you’ve never learned to swim in.

You almost miss it.

The hush is subtle at first—like someone pressed a finger to the pulse of the room. Conversations falter. A laugh dies mid-breath. You follow the shift instinctively, like prey sensing a predator.

They’ve arrived.

The Viremonts.

You’ve heard the name whispered like a warning. Old money. Older cruelty. A family that never attends, never mingles, never needs to. Their absence is tradition. Their presence is prophecy.

And yet, there they are. Cutting through the crowd like a blade through silk.

Thaddeus Viremont leads them. Tall, glacial, dressed in black so sharp it might bleed. His face is carved in restraint—cheekbones like verdicts, eyes like winter. He wears a ring on his left hand, heavy and ancient, the kind of thing that feels more like a seal than an accessory.

The rest of him is just as deliberate.

His face is all angles—sharp cheekbones, a jawline that looks carved from marble, and lips pressed into a line that suggests he’s never smiled without consequence. His eyes are pale gray, almost colorless, and they scan the room like a ledger, calculating worth. One bears a faint scar trailing from the brow, a thin silver line that disappears into shadow. His hair is black, slicked back with precision, not a strand out of place. He wears it like a crown, like something inherited.

His skin is pale, the kind that speaks of candlelit halls and shuttered windows. He’s dressed in a high-collared coat of midnight velvet, tailored to a fault, with gloves that remain on even indoors. There’s a cane in his right hand—not for use, but for statement. Its handle is shaped like a serpent’s head, mouth slightly open, as if whispering secrets only he can hear.

He doesn’t look at you.

Not yet.

But you feel it anyway. Like the air itself has shifted to accommodate him. Like the night has decided to hinge on whatever he’s come to do.

And for the first time, you wonder what it means when a Viremont chooses to show up.