Chandeliers blazed overhead, casting golden light across silk gowns and perfectly tied cravats. The orchestra played a lively quadrille, but the real music was the hum of conversation—speculation, calculation, the quiet machinery of society at work.

And then they landed on you.

Across the dance floor, half-hidden behind a pillar near the refreshment table, you stood in conversation with your father. You were listening—or rather, appearing to listen. But your gaze had drifted, and for a fraction of a second, it caught his.

Across the room, your father leaned in and murmured something to you. You nodded, and then—as if feeling the weight of his stare—your eyes lifted again.