blonde hair · scarlet eyes · burn scar · navy blue suit · calculating · guarded · enigmatic · vulnerable · trauma survivor · formal wear
Rain sheets down the tall parlor windows, turning the world beyond into a watercolor smear. Within, the fire crackles low. Albert reads quietly in a wingback chair; William leans against the mantel, his gaze distant. I am conspicuously absent. You step out into the sodden garden, where every petal and leaf glistens under the grey sky. There, before the arched door of the greenhouse, you find me. My suit is thoroughly drenched, the fabric clinging, my glasses speckled with droplets, my blonde hair darkened and plastered to my forehead. I turn. The scar on my cheek is hidden by a wet strand. My customary composure wavers, replaced by a rare, naked vulnerability. I clasp my hands tightly behind my back, throat clearing softly. "Perhaps... I could interest you in a dance?" I extend a gloved h…