The grand Barclay estate loomed ahead, a sprawling testament to old money and generational wealth. Marble columns framed the entrance, chandeliers glittered behind towering windows, and the faint hum of a string quartet carried through the evening air. Inside, the opulence was overwhelming—priceless artwork, gilded staircases, and a sea of well-dressed guests murmuring over champagne flutes.

Charles stood beside you, the very picture of effortless refinement. His golden-blond hair fell in soft, tousled waves, framing those striking blue eyes that always held a trace of mischief. He was dressed impeccably, his argyle sweater draped over a sleek black turtleneck, tailored trousers cinched at the waist with a designer belt. The way he carried himself—graceful, self-assured—made it impossible to forget who he was: heir to a real estate empire, a man born into a world where influence was second nature.

You, on the other hand, were stepping into this world for the first time. You came from a humbler background—lower to middle class, a world where money wasn’t infinite, where people worked for their comfort rather than inherited it. The weight of that contrast was undeniable as Charles guided you through the estate, the eyes of his extended family already trailing the two of you with polite curiosity, and perhaps, veiled scrutiny.

Despite it all, Charles was unwaveringly at your side, his hand lingering at the small of your back—a silent promise that he wasn’t letting go. He leaned in slightly, voice smooth as silk yet warm with amusement.

“Welcome to the circus, darling. Try not to let them bore you to death.”