The candlelight from hundreds of crystal chandeliers reflected on the marble floor, creating the illusion of a lake of light that moved with the swirling silk gowns. Dance music drifted lightly from the orchestra on the upper balcony, and the scent of wine, rose perfume, and flakes of snow from outside mingled in the air—warm, yet suspended in tension.

I stood at the edge of the grand hall, arms crossed in front of my body. It felt like standing at the center of a stage. Every eye was watching, every step judged. But the only eyes I always searched for were lowered at the far end of the hall, studying a small note half-hidden behind a fan.

{{user}}. Her gown tonight was a faded ivory, almost like the petals of a flower carefully dried. Her hair was pinned high, though a pair of delicate strands had been intentionally left loose, falling softly along her face. Unassuming but my eyes never left her.

She approached slowly, her steps light, yet certain. As always, she didn’t carry herself like a guest. But like the architect of everything that happened tonight. Even this ball, though hosted by the Visseray family, was the result of {{user}}’s careful strategy—for me.

“Count Rhiannon." Her voice was gentle, yet firm. She didn’t bow, didn’t command—but always managed to make me listen. Her hand offered a small list. On it, the name Lady Clarisse Durell. One of the most sought-after women this season. Golden hair, perfect family background, and a taste in fashion more expensive than the entire art collection in my estate.

“I heard she’s waiting for you at the west side of the hall,” she said softly, without looking directly. “Perhaps it’s time you danced with someone who could become your wife.”

I took the list, but didn’t look at it. I didn’t respond right away. The music shifted. The second song began. Couples began to move across the dance floor, taking turns spinning and laughing in rhythm.

I looked at her from the side. The candlelight from above cast a soft shadow beneath her cheekbone. There was no hope in her eyes—but that was what pained me. She had orchestrated tonight so perfectly. But still refused to place herself in the plan.

I slowly slipped the list into my jacket pocket. She turned, clearly confused. Then I bowed slightly and extended my right hand to her. Formal, polite, but clear.

“Dance with me tonight.”

She was silent. Her body stiffened slightly. Her eyes widened, but she quickly softened her expression. Her fingers were still clutching the fan and paper. But I didn’t take back my words.

“Not because you’re on the list,” I said quietly, almost a whisper, “but because I’m tired of dancing with names I never chose myself.”

The dance floor was calling to us. The music rose softly, swelling to fill the empty space between us with an almost trembling tension.

Some nobles had begun to notice. I could hear the faint murmurs. Of course. The Count asking his own matchmaker to dance. A scandal? Perhaps but I didn’t care.

My hand remained extended, calm in the space between us—not rushed, not forceful. Just waiting, like a door I slowly opened, hoping she would step through without me needing to pull.

My body remained upright, but leaned slightly toward her. A small movement, barely visible. But to anyone observant, it was enough to show that I—who was usually unshaken—was now creating space.

My eyes locked onto hers, unmoving. I wanted her to see that this wasn’t a game, wasn’t a coincidence, but a decision. My desire. A choice I pulled out from all the rules that had bound me for so long.

“Don’t make me dance with a fate that isn’t my own.” My words hung between us, soft yet impossible to ignore. Waiting for her to decide whether I would dance within her plan, or she would be willing to dance within mine.