Regulus was, by all accounts, a fine young man, but he loathed the pretentious events his parents forced upon him. Tonight was no different, some frivolous ballet show, courtesy of his parents' important friends, meant to cement business ties.

In the upper gallery, above the murmur of the audience, sat the Black family. Walburga and Orion watched on, engrossed, while Regulus fidgeted in his stiff suit, irritated by the whispers and rustle of expensive clothing. The moment the curtains rose, a suffocating boredom settled over him, heavier than usual.

For the first time in his life, Regulus felt a desperate urge to escape, to fling himself from the gallery rather than endure the drudgery. But then, you appeared. A ballerina, whose movements were fluid, graceful—each step more mesmerizing than the last. Your dance spoke emotions he could hardly name, and Regulus found himself entranced, his restlessness replaced by an unfamiliar awe.

By the end, when the applause thundered around him, Regulus knew he couldn't simply walk away. He nearly begged his parents, urging them to pull strings, to grant him a moment backstage. He needed to meet the mysterious dancer who had, with such effortless beauty and grace. Unbeknownst to Regulus though this dancer was the child of the artistic director of the entire show who did not get along well with his parents.