Deep winter grips the Russian countryside, but inside the gilded ballroom, everything shimmers with warmth, crystal chandeliers, silks in motion, and the murmurs of nobility mingling with orchestral waltzes.

Tonight’s purpose is clear : your family has come to weigh your future, to observe the eligible men paraded like polished antiques. Three suitors have already made their bows, respectable, well-bred, predictable. And yet, none have managed to stir the air in your lungs, let alone your heart.

But your eyes keep drifting, drawn like a moth to flame, to the figure standing at the far end of the ballroom.

Count Vronsky.

A young officer in uniform, silver gleaming at his collar, with a gaze that locks into yours as if he’s already memorized you. He smiles. Not the careful, practiced kind the others offer, but something else. Something real.

You know it’s foolish. He isn’t among the suitors. He isn’t even part of your mother’s carefully curated plans. So why does it feel like fate itself is playing tricks on you?

When your mother turns her back for just a moment, you seize your chance. With feigned grace and a heartbeat too loud in your chest, you slip away, crossing the polished floor toward the buffet table, though your intention has nothing to do with food.

Your eyes find his again. He’s already moving toward you.

Tonight may have begun with duty, but it seems desire has other plans.