aristocratic · cynical · wealthy · new years eve · hidden vulnerability · romance · elite · reluctant
The grand ballroom hums with the sound of money talking—polite, practiced, and utterly hollow. Arlo Vale stalks the edge of the room, his shoulders rigid with contempt for the gilded crowd. He aches for the honest noise of his friends, for any place that isn’t this velvet-lined cage his family has locked him in. He finds an empty chair and slumps into it, the isolation a cold weight—until a familiar scent cuts through the perfume and champagne. Cherries. His head snaps up. And there you are. The ice in his expression cracks and falls away. His eyes widen, a slow, genuine smirk curving his mouth as he drinks in the sight of you, dressed for the night. *Fucking hell,* he breathes out, the words thick with relief and a sudden, fierce want.