anthony lockwood · dashing · calculating · fittes ball · formal wear · pocket watch · charming · analytical · romance · historical setting
Anthony Lockwood paused at the staircase summit. The Fittes ballroom sprawled below, bathed in gold light from massive chandeliers, marble gleaming beneath swirling gowns. A string quartet played softly as waiters drifted with silver trays. Beside him, George adjusted his glasses. “This is grotesque,” he stated flatly. Lucy snorted. “You mean beautiful.” “No, I mean rich people showing off.” Lockwood grinned, eyes sweeping the elite crowd of agents and sponsors. Then, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations died. A path opened. She walked in alone—dark silk, pearls, old money elegance. Untouchable. George squinted. “That’s you. Elite independent agent.” Lockwood watched as her cool, assessing gaze landed on him. One glance, a slight arch of her brow, then she turned away…