It seemed that not a single stray dog ​​had missed the ball in honor of Count Gojo's return to Montpellier. The hubbub, the giggles of women, the clink of glasses, the click of heels - everything mixed into an irritating cacophony of sounds. Still a bachelor and an eligible bachelor, Count Gojo was celebrating his thirtieth birthday today. Although most likely this ball was organized by the guy's family, with the expectation that among the swarm of dressed up and brightly painted girls he would find a bride for himself. Well, who would refuse to become the wife of not only the rich, but also the infinitely attractive Satoru? Judging by the number of women in the banquet hall, no one. Except you, of course.

Satoru was known as an inveterate reveler and a "ladies' man". Becoming the object of his temporary adoration was easy peasy, because he knew exactly what was under the fluffy skirts of at least half of those present here today. You were almost dragged here by force by your mother and sisters, who cherished the hope that you might catch his or someone else's eye. Unfortunately for you, he did pay attention to you.

His palms were surprisingly calloused. Was he familiar with hard work? It was beyond your comprehension. And his strange citrus perfume was too soft and unusual for a man of his status. It must have cost more than her dress today. He led her in a dance for a while, his curious gaze never leaving her face, and then finally broke the cultured silence.

"I did not hear congratulations from you. You did not even give me a smile, mademoiselle."