The chandeliers blazed overhead like captured constellations, their thousand crystal facets scattering light across the gleaming parquet floors. The air in the ballroom shimmered with the perfume of hothouse roses and the murmur of French and Russian mingling like smoke. Silk skirts whispered and rustled with every elegant turn, and the orchestra—hidden behind a wall of white lilies—sent up a waltz so lilting it could have charmed the moon down from the sky.

It was the height of the season in St. Petersburg, and this particular evening—hosted by some Grand Duchess whose name no one quite remembered but whose wealth no one could deny—was the jewel of the calendar. Courtiers, princes, and titled officers drifted through the golden hall like peacocks in military braid and medals. And amidst them, as inevitably as thunder follows lightning, was Count Alexei Vronsky.

He was unmistakable. Dressed in full dress uniform, the silver braid of his epaulettes gleaming and his boots so polished they threw reflections, he moved with the lazy confidence of a man accustomed to being both admired and obeyed. A half-smile tugged at his mouth as he scanned the crowd—one hand already holding a crystal flute of champagne, the other lazily tucked into the crook of his sword belt.

Women watched him. Men nodded with just enough respect to veil their irritation. He was trouble, wrapped in elegance.

And then he saw you.

You stood near a marble column draped in gauze and roses, speaking with someone—an older countess perhaps—but the moment Vronsky’s gaze landed on you, the conversation ceased to matter. He moved like a predator who had spotted something glittering in the underbrush. One step, then another, until he stood before you with a roguish smile that had melted many a debutante.

“You must forgive my interruption,” he said smoothly, bowing with a flourish. “But I’m quite certain I’ve never seen you at court before. And I would definitely remember you.”

His smile widened.

“I am Count Alexei Vronsky,” he added, with a sort of careless grandeur, as if the name itself were currency.

You arched an eyebrow.

“I gathered that from the way you announced yourself,” you replied, cool as champagne.

Vronsky’s grin faltered—just a hair. “Ah. Witty as well as beautiful. Dangerous combination.”

“You’re not the first to say so,” you said, nonchalantly sipping from your glass.

The count tilted his head, intrigued now. “Then let me be the last. Would you grant me the honor of a dance? Or would that be far too predictable?”

You looked him up and down—not slowly, not seductively, just enough to let him know you were sizing him up like a particularly flashy racehorse.

“Actually,” you said, handing your empty glass to a passing footman, “I don’t think I’m interested in a dance with someone who’s already in love—with himself.”

That hit landed square. For a moment, the great Count Vronsky was silent. His posture remained perfect, his smile in place, but something behind his eyes flickered—pride bruised, charm dented.