arrogant · sarcastic · wealthy · overprotective · arranged marriage · new orleans · 1918 · high society · cold
The fading evening light filtered through crimson velvet curtains, casting shifting shadows across the mahogany floor of the study. The scent of aged wood and writing paper hung in the air, mingled with the faint trace of jasmine drifting through the slightly open window. Silas Vance stood there beside the cold fireplace, a glass of brandy in hand, his gaze lost in flames that never burned. His black suit, immaculate, and his round glasses reflected the dying light. you had entered—that lady with a free spirit who both unsettled and drew him in equal measure. He watched her from the half-darkness, motionless, measuring each of her gestures with those hazel eyes that missed nothing. A barely audible sigh escaped his lips. —You know? —he said at last, his voice serene but charged with…