Ronin was dressed in an impeccably fitted black shirt and matching trousers, the fabric clinging to his lean, well-toned frame like it was tailored just for him. Under the soft ballroom lighting, the contrast between his pale skin and dark clothing made him look almost ethereal—like he belonged more in moonlight than in candlelight.
"Pleasure to meet you too," Elvira murmured, her voice velvet-soft.
Ronin smiled faintly, then reached for her hand. His lips brushed her knuckles in a kiss that was more calculated than romantic—like he was testing her reaction.
Their eyes locked.
They stared, unblinking. Assessing. Testing. Something unspoken passed between them. A shared tension neither of them could name yet.
But before the silence could stretch too long, Elvira's mother swept in like a storm—elegant, commanding, and absolutely not in the mood for lingering flirtations.
"Elvira," she said curtly. "Come. There are people you must meet."
Elvira reluctantly let her hand fall away from Ronin's as her mother gently, but firmly, guided her across the room. The applause had quieted, but eyes were still on her.
They stopped before a woman with sharp cheekbones, green-gray eyes, and jet-black hair pulled into a tight, punishing bun. She wore an expression like she was already disappointed in everyone in the room.
"Elvira, this is Lady Verona ," her mother said. "And her two sons—Lord Anson Ashford and Lord Alanza Ashford."
Verona gave a short, cold nod, her gaze sweeping over Elvira like a general inspecting a soldier.
Standing beside her, the brothers couldn't have been more different.
Anson looked serious—quiet, reserved, even distant. His black hair was slightly tousled, but his violet eyes held a calm, cold edge, like a still lake that could swallow you if you weren't careful. His posture was stiff, formal, controlled. Elvira felt like he was trying to read her mind—or maybe trying not to.
Alanza, however, was the opposite. He looked just like his mother—green eyes, black hair, sharp features—but there was a sly smirk playing on his lips. He wore a deep green shirt that perfectly matched his eye color, paired with black pants. Confidence rolled off him in waves. Not arrogance, exactly—but the kind of charm that knew it could ruin you, and probably would, just to see what would happen.
He tilted his head slightly as he looked her over, still smirking. Elvira raised an eyebrow in response, unamused.
Who is this smug little brat? she thought.
But before she could say anything sharp, her mother's hand pressed against her back in warning. Behave.
She gave a polite smile, just enough to be courteous but not so much that it gave anything away.
This night's just getting worse, she thought.
Elvira found herself staring—not at Anson, but at Alanza, whose green eyes were locked on hers, amused. She hadn't even realized how long she'd been looking at him until he stepped forward, still smirking.
Without hesitation, he bent slightly, reached for her hand, and pressed a light kiss to her fingers.
"Beautiful as ever, Miss Elvira," he said, his voice low and teasing.
His touch lingered, just a little longer than necessary. She didn't pull away.
Elvira stared into his eyes—and saw it. A glint. A sparkle. Not affection. Not mischief. Something in-between. Something dangerous.
A shiver ran up her spine.
She quickly pushed the thought away and managed a composed smile, the kind she'd perfected over years of these sorts of games.
But then—Lady Vernama shifted slightly, her expression unreadable, and gave Elvira's mother a subtle nod.
That was all it took.
"Elvira. Anson. Follow me," her mother—Lady Colette—said sharply.
Elvira took a step back instinctively, adjusting her posture like she'd just been caught doing something she shouldn't. Her eyes flicked briefly to Lady Verona, then to Alanza.
"What about me, Lady Colette?" Alanza asked, his tone light but laced with something more—like he wasn't used to being excluded.
Lady Colette paused for a moment, already turning away.
"Fine. You can come too," she said flatly.
Alanza grinned.
Elvira didn't grin back.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Lady Colette stepped forward into the quiet sitting room, her heels echoing sharply against the marble floor. The ornate walls, once meant for private comfort, now felt suffocating. She gestured toward the velvet-cushioned chairs around a low table.
"Sit," she said firmly.
Elvira, Alanza, and Anson obeyed. Lady Verona took her seat with cold precision, her posture stiff as a blade. Once everyone was settled, Lady Colette smoothed the front of her gown and sat down herself, folding her hands neatly in her lap.
"Elvira," she began, her voice clipped and formal, "Lady Verona and I have come to a decision. You and Lord Anson are to be engaged."
Elvira's breath caught.
"What?" she blurted, eyes wide. "Why?!"
Lady Verona's head snapped toward her like a hawk spotting prey.
"That is no way to speak to your mother, young lady," she snapped. "Where are your manners?"
"But—" Elvira started again, her voice shaking.
Lady Verona raised one sharp hand, silencing her with a single gesture.
"Your elders have made a decision," she said, voice like frost. "And you will respect it."
The room went still, heavy with unspoken fury. Elvira clenched her fists in her lap, nails digging into her palms, her throat burning with all the things she couldn't say.
And then—quietly, unexpectedly—Alanza spoke.
"But Mother," he said, turning to Lady Vernama, "isn't there… some other way?"
His voice wasn't loud, but it was enough to make both women look at him. His usual smirk was gone. He wasn't joking.
Lady Vernama's gaze narrowed.
"Young man, stay out of this! You shouldn't be concerned about matters that do not involve you!" Lady Vernama snapped at Alanza, her voice slicing through the air like a dagger.
Elvira glanced at him, heart racing. Something about the way he looked at her—not with flirtation, but something softer, quieter—made her chest ache in a way she didn't understand.
Why did he speak up?And why did it matter so much?
Elvira rose from her seat, her chest tight with fury.
"It is my life," she said, her tone sharper than anyone had ever heard from her. "And I will decide who I'm to marry. Or if I marry at all."
Without waiting for permission—or consequence—she turned and stormed out, slamming the door shut behind her with a loud, echoing thud.
The corridor felt colder now. Heavy. But the moment she stepped back into the grand hall, the sound of laughter and string music swallowed her whole, like nothing had happened at all.
She didn't want to talk. Didn't want to pretend.
She found an empty seat near the far side of the ballroom, tucked beside a small table draped in satin. A crystal glass of grape nectar sat untouched. She picked it up, turning it in her hand, staring at her reflection in the liquid's surface.
Just as she raised it to her lips—
"What a rare sight," a male voice drawled smoothly."A beautiful young lady, sitting alone, sipping grape nectar and pretending it's wine."
Elvira looked up, her brows slightly raised.
"And who might you be?" she asked coolly.
The man smiled with a spark of mischief. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with soft blond curls and piercing blue eyes. He wore a cream-colored shirt tucked into light pants, his overall presence almost too charming to be harmless.
"Forgive me," he said. "I am Lance Thather. Does the name stir any memories?"
She blinked, confused. "No. I'm afraid it doesn't."
"We used to frolic together as children," he added, leaning closer, as if nostalgia alone might bridge the distance between them.
Elvira tilted her head, unfazed. "Then I'm sorry to disappoint you," she said with a glint in her eye."I'm not a child anymore."
Lance blinked, caught off guard. "What happened to the little girl I knew?"
Her expression turned distant. Cold. "Time happened," she said, standing up. "And time changes everyone… including me."
Without waiting for a response, she walked away.
Later that night, Elvira lay in her bed, staring at the velvet canopy above her. She wasn't tired, not truly—but her body was heavy with the weight of the evening.
A soft knock came from the dressing room door, and a maid stepped out with a folded robe in her hands.
"Madam, your night robes are ready," she said gently.
"Thank you. You may leave now," Elvira replied.
Once the maid disappeared, she changed into a silk-blue night robe that hugged her frame, then threw herself into the bed. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender. She pulled the blanket over her shoulders and tried to let the world fade.
Sleep came—slowly. Uneasy.
Until—
Creak.
Her eyes opened immediately.
Footsteps. Soft. Deliberate. Coming from the balcony.
Heart racing, Elvira sat up, silent as a ghost. She stepped onto the carpeted floor, bare feet quiet. The moonlight spilling through the curtain lit the edge of the balcony door—and she saw it.
A shadow. A figure. Standing still.
Behind the curtain.
Without thinking, Elvira reached for a vase from the side table. Its weight felt right in her hand.
And slowly—deliberately—she moved toward the figure in the dark.