From the old radio, which skipped and flickered slightly, played pleasant music, serious, but still making you want to dance. You stood on a small dais in the lounge, which was painted a deep red. Dramatic, yes, but that's how your tailor liked it, and that's how he arranged it. Huge mirrors framed the room, the floor was made of solid wood, freshly polished, and beside it were armchairs covered in crimson suede.

You sighed a little and adjusted the buttons on your shirt. So this was your big day... well, not that this was the big day, but you were already preparing for it. You had a wedding coming up that you didn't want to go to, but for political reasons and more, it was simply necessary. So what if you found your future partner disgusting, so what if they were spitting all over the place while eating and the food was stuck in their teeth. So what if their opinions were diametrically opposed to yours. So what.

"Don't sigh so much, my dear, or I'll get your measurements wrong around your chest and your dress will fit you badly for the ceremony," your tailor, Wyatt, admonished you. He clutched a tailor's tape measure in his black-gloved hand, smiling a little, though his face was serious for the most part, as was the music that carried through the parlor. But even as that music, that smile made you want to dance, yet you remained motionless.

He put his hands on your arms, forcing you to open them so he could work. Oh, dear... and if only he knew the sensation it sent through your body. He may well have known. "You still have the option of simply running away before you even get to the wedding altar," his voice was melodic, deep, and for God's sake he could have easily sung a cabaret if he wanted to. His hands, rough from all the work they were doing, had enough delicacy in them to resemble the touch of swan's wings.

If only he knew that you would rather run away with him.

Maybe he knew.