Y R U Here???

The morning of your presentation dawned gray.

Not with a dramatic storm or a sky heavy with lightning, but with that particular kind of London sky covered in pale clouds that seemed to drain the color from everything they touched. The light was dull, almost sickly, filtering weakly through the clouds as though even the sun had decided to watch the day from a distance.

For you, there was no color at all.

There was no excitement.

No anticipation.

Only that persistent feeling of loss and emptiness settling heavily in your chest.

It was the beginning of a future that filled you with no hope.

It was the beginning of a life you did not want to live.

The night before, you had wished for rain.

Not a light drizzle, but a relentless storm that would turn the streets into rivers of mud and force everyone to remain inside their homes. You had imagined your father staring out the window in disgust, refusing to risk his reputation — and your white dress — in such dreadful weather.

But the sky had decided to remain merely overcast. Now, as the carriage moved slowly through an endless line of elegant vehicles outside the palace, your hands rested perfectly upon your lap.

Still.

Calm.

Every finger placed exactly where it ought to be.

You looked every bit the proper and elegant young lady.

Your governess would have been proud.

Your father also seemed satisfied… in part. Only in part, because he would never be completely satisfied when it came to you.

From the seat across from you, he watched with that same evaluating gaze he always used whenever something belonged to his reputation. Your dress was impeccable. Your posture correct. Your hair perfectly arranged.

Soft.

Delicate.

Modest.

Everything a marquis’s daughter was meant to be.

And yet he still disliked you.

Especially your expression.

Too serious.

Too empty.

Too much like mourning — though he would never admit such a thing and would always cling to the belief that it was merely rebellion.

Leah, seated beside you, remained silent. Her hands rested together on her skirt, her gaze lowered to a nonexistent point inside the carriage. You did not need to look at her to know what she was thinking. She understood far too well what this day meant to you.

At last, the carriage came to a stop.

Through the window, you could see other young women stepping down: white dresses, long gloves, delicate feathers adorning carefully crafted hairstyles.

All molded from the same pattern in which they had been raised.

Perfect young ladies, prepared to be… chosen.

A footman opened the door.

Your father descended first, immaculate in his dark suit and wearing the stern expression reserved for official occasions. Then he offered you his hand.

“Remember what is expected of you.” He said quietly as he helped you down.

It was not advice. It was a warning.

The interior of the palace was even more imposing than the exterior façade.

The marble floors gleamed like mirrors beneath the chandelier light. Uniformed servants guided families through the vast corridors while a constant murmur of elegant voices filled the air.

Perfume, feathers, and nerves floated everywhere.

The debutantes waited in an antechamber.

As you entered, the sound of conversation softened, becoming more nervous.

Some young women discreetly practiced their curtsies. Others adjusted details of their gowns or hairstyles. A few whispered among themselves, trying to guess who would become the queen’s favorite that season.

Your father was immediately absorbed into conversation with other nobles.

For the first time in weeks, you felt the urge to cry. Panic began to slip slowly through your body like ice beneath your skin. A chill formed in your abdomen. Your breathing, already restricted by the corset compressing your waist to impossibility, became uneven — too fast and too shallow. You could even feel your breakfast slowly rising in your throat.

The murmur of the room began to fade around you, as though the world were being covered in cotton. Your vision narrowed. Your hands started to grow cold.

The only thing that managed to pull you from the beginning of that storm was Leah’s voice… and her warm hand resting against your forearm.

“Breathe.” She whispered.

“I am breathing.”

“Not enough.”

A young woman beside you let out a trembling sigh, born from a fear entirely different from yours.

“They say the queen knows immediately who will be a success during the season and who will become a spinster.”

Another replied:

“My cousin fainted during her presentation.”

Leah shot you an amused glance, trying to anchor you back to reality.

“Do not do that.”

You managed something resembling a laugh.

“I was not planning to, but it is a good idea.”

A royal butler then entered the room. His face was stern, and the countless wrinkles around his eyes made it obvious how many generations of debutantes he had watched pass through that chamber.

He probably also knows who will be a success and who will become a spinster, you thought.

“The young ladies will be called in order.” He announced firmly.

The murmur died almost instantly, and you would have wagered that some debutantes and their mothers had stopped breathing entirely from nerves.

One by one, names began to be called.

Each debutante crossed the double doors into the grand hall where the queen awaited, ready to examine each of them from head to toe. After several minutes they would return — some radiant, certain they had pleased the queen or buoyed by a kind remark from her, while others came back pale as paper or with tears already slipping down their cheeks.

Your turn arrived sooner than you expected.

“The daughter of the Marquess of Blackthorne, accompanied by the Right Honorable Lady Blackthorne.”

You exhaled slowly as the white doors opened before you.

For one second, your heart stopped beating.

Your mind disconnected.

It was as though a part of you had shut down… simply to get through that moment as quickly as possible.

Your face remained perfectly composed, wearing the flawless smile expected of you.

Hundreds of eyes turned toward you the instant you entered. Nobles lined both sides of the hall watched with restrained interest while the soft music of a small string ensemble filled the space.

At the far end of the hall, upon a small platform, sat the queen.

Majestic.

Dressed in shimmering silks and jewels that captured the light of the room. Her posture was flawless, her expression impossible to read.

You walked down the center of the hall.

Every step was measured and graceful.

Your white gown glided softly across the polished floor while its train was carried by a page and Leah walked several steps behind you.

When you finally reached the throne, you stopped, holding your breath once more, and performed a deep, perfect curtsy full of respect while keeping your gaze lowered to the floor.

The silence lasted only a moment.

Then the queen spoke your name, her voice curiously warm.

“We have heard that your debut has been highly anticipated.”

You carefully lifted your gaze, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten beneath such unexpected attention from the queen.

That attention could only mean one thing.

More eyes upon you.

More suitors.

More expectations.

“It is an honor to stand before Your Majesty.”

The queen observed you for several seconds that seemed to stretch far longer than they should have.

Her eyes were sharp, far too perceptive, as though she were seeing something beyond your dress, your posture, or your surname. Then, a small smile appeared on her lips.

Under different circumstances, it would have filled you with pride, but now it only made you feel as though your ruin was drawing near.

“A young lady with… interesting poise.”

The comment stirred a faint murmur among the nearby nobles.

The queen lifted her hand slightly.

“Enjoy the season.”

It was a dismissal.

You curtsied once more before carefully stepping back.

When you turned to leave the hall, you felt the weight of all those male gazes upon you again.

Evaluating.

Calculating.

Imagining possible futures.

The doors opened once more to let you pass.

And you walked down the corridor far too quickly, feeling as though your heart were trying to escape your chest while the air around you once again became scarce.

Leah’s voice reached you from behind, distant and muffled, though in reality she was only a few steps away, trying to catch up to you as quickly as your gown and slippers allowed.

The only thing you wanted was to flee in the carriage and never leave the house again.

☆

Sitting before the mirror, all you could see was your reflection being carefully prepared by the maids. Being painted to appear softer and sweeter, your hair arranged meticulously into an elegant updo that made you look more refined.

Your gown — chosen by your father, of course — was made of ivory silk with delicate embroidery that captured the candlelight. It had been designed to make you appear exactly as society wished to see you: a young lady ready to be taken as a wife, nothing more.

The ball held by the new Earls of Albemarle terrified you. Though you were not the girl for whom the queen had risen from her seat to lift her chin and proudly declare her perfect, you had still received praise that, while small, carried significance within the marriage market.

The soft sound of your bedroom door opening pulled you from your thoughts for a moment, directing your attention toward Leah’s reflection as she entered carrying a flat square box of red velvet in her hands.

The maid, who had just finished placing a delicate tiara upon your head, stepped back to allow you to rise.

Leah looked you over from head to toe, releasing a restrained sigh as a faint smile appeared on her lips. A smile that said you looked beautiful, while also mourning the fact that you were about to enter a world you never wished to belong to.

“Your father said you were to wear this for your first ball.” She said as she handed the velvet box to the maid.

The moment the flat box was opened before you, your breath caught as you recognized the diamond necklace and earrings that had been gifted by the queen generations ago. The same necklace your mother had worn in that portrait hanging in your father’s study. The same necklace worn by so many women in your family.

Leah carefully lifted the necklace and fastened it around your neck, and the moment the clasp clicked shut behind you, you felt the weight of it — not merely the jewelry itself, but the weight of your father’s message.

Your life would be the same as your mother’s.

The earrings were placed into your hands, and with trembling fingers you slowly put them on one by one.

“I know this isn't what you want... But the queen's kindness might turn out to be a blessing in disguise; it might make it easier for you to meet someone nice... or at least tolerable. There are men like Lord Albryon who travel so much that he only sees his wife once a year.”

You exhaled as you slowly closed your eyes in bitterness upon hearing Leah try to find something positive in all of this, even after your father had already shown you the portraits of the bachelors whose attention you might accept.

“Please do not do that.” You whispered.

She merely nodded, pressing her lips into a soft smile as she rested a hand upon your shoulder.

You looked at yourself one final time in the mirror, mentally preparing yourself for the night ahead.

☆

The ball hosted by the new Earls of Albemarle proved even grander than Leah had hinted earlier that afternoon in Richard’s room.

From the moment your carriage stopped before the family’s London residence, you understood that the evening would not be an ordinary social gathering. The façade of the palace was illuminated by dozens of lamps whose golden reflections spilled across the polished stone steps while elegant carriages arrived one after another.

Uniformed servants helped ladies descend, gathering velvet cloaks and embroidered coats while gentlemen adjusted their gloves.

Your father stepped down first. Then he extended his hand toward you without even looking at you.

“Remember what you were taught.” He said quietly while helping you descend.

You did not ask what he meant.

You already knew perfectly well.

Smile.

Be charming.

Be flattering.

Do not argue.

Do not speak about books.

Do not mention your desires.

And, above all else, allow the proper men to give you their attention.

You walked arm in arm with your father, with Leah at his other side, forming a perfectly calculated image of familial harmony, though the reality was another story entirely.

You struggled to control your racing breath, to quiet the anxious pounding of your heart, while every step upon the polished stone felt like an inevitable march toward a fate you had always wished to avoid — a path drawn by others, one that left no room for detours, for dreams, or for choice.

You came back to yourself when a male voice addressed you.

“Welcome, Lord and Lady Blackthorne.”

The man before you was tall, impeccably poised, and possessed a beauty that was difficult to ignore. His blond hair caught the glow of the lamps, and his attire — elegant without descending into excess — spoke of wealth… but also of restraint.

Holding onto his arm stood a red-haired woman.

Her deep green silk gown flowed gracefully around her slender figure, accentuating an almost hypnotic beauty. Her perfectly composed face alone would have been enough to captivate any ballroom from the instant she stepped inside.

But it was not only her beauty. It was something more.

Both of them shared a presence… unlike anyone else’s.

A stillness too perfect.

An elegance almost unnatural.

A subtle coldness that contrasted with the smiles they offered.

And, without knowing exactly why, a faint chill ran down your spine.

“I am Steve, the new Earl of Albemarle, and this is my wife, Natasha, the Countess. It is an honor to receive you.” He said, offering a slight bow alongside his wife.

You and Leah performed elegant, perfectly executed curtsies. Your father, meanwhile, merely inclined his head slightly.

You knew that precise gesture very well. Carefully measured, it was enough to acknowledge their position… but not deep enough to grant true respect.

After all, in his mind, a marquess should never bow more than necessary before people of lesser birth.

“The pleasure is ours.” He replied firmly, keeping his chin lifted.

You did not need to think very hard to know what he was thinking. He was evaluating them with his gaze, just as he had done with other nobles before. No doubt comparing them to the former earls, already passing judgment in his mind upon the ball they had organized. To him, nothing ever rose to his standards.

You shifted your gaze toward the countess just in time to notice the slight arch of her brow as she observed your father, almost as though she had read every one of his thoughts about them.

For a moment, the air seemed to tighten.

Then a small smile, too subtle to be entirely polite, appeared upon her red lips.

“I do hope the ball proves to be…” She paused briefly, as though choosing her words with care. “to your standards, Lord Blackthorne.”

Her voice was soft, flawless, yet there was something else beneath the tone. Something barely perceptible that was not submission. Perhaps challenge — elegant and perfectly mannered, yet unmistakable all the same.

It felt as though someone had suddenly spoken in a language you also understood, and at last the faintest trace of a genuine smile appeared upon your lips, one the countess immediately noticed.

Your father’s expression hardened almost imperceptibly as he held Lady Albemarle’s gaze for one second longer before a smile bordering on condescension appeared.

“I have no doubt that it will be, lady.”

☆

When you finally crossed the threshold into the main ballroom, the murmur of elegant conversation and the sound of string music enveloped you immediately, like a tide both gentle… and inescapable.

The ballroom was immense.

Crystal chandeliers descended from the high ceiling, multiplying the light into shimmering reflections that slid across the polished floor where the first couples were already turning gracefully to the rhythm of a perfectly executed waltz. The walls, covered in mirrors and gilded panels, reflected a world in constant motion: fans opening and closing, practiced smiles, gowns in shades of ivory, pale rose, and soft blue that seemed to float rather than walk.

The air was heavy with perfume, candle wax, and sweet wine.

Your father wasted no time greeting acquaintances, dragging both you and Leah through the ballroom as though you were part of his carefully orchestrated presentation.

“My daughter.” He would say. “Her first ball of the season.”

And every time he did, a new pair of eyes settled upon you.

The gentlemen did not take long to begin writing their names upon your dance card, regardless of title or family. After all, you could not refuse those your father deemed unsuitable, because rejecting one meant rejecting them all.

The first dance was with the second son of a baron. A young man with proper manners and a discreet presence. His steps were precise, almost mechanical, and his conversation remained limited to only what was strictly necessary. There was no interest in his gaze, not even true expectation, merely obligation.

Somehow, that relieved you, giving you the impression that, much like yourself, he had been pushed into that place by duties that did not entirely belong to him.

“Thank you for the dance.” He said when the music ended, offering an impeccable bow.

“And thank you.” You replied.

The second dance was with a viscount, a man several years older than you and surrounded by unconfirmed rumors of bastard children with maids and prostitutes. His smile was far too confident, far too familiar for someone who barely knew you.

You barely spoke during the dance, unwilling to give him reason to mistake courtesy for interest.

“I have heard you enjoy horseback riding.” He said while spinning you effortlessly across the floor. “Perhaps you would care to accompany me tomorrow. We might… become better acquainted.”

His fingers tightened slightly at your waist, his thumb brushing against the fabric of your gown, hoping to provoke a blush or a shiver from you, but nothing happened.

“I used to,” You replied softly. “But I stopped after suffering a fall in the countryside.”

You lied without hesitation.

He did not appear convinced, almost offended even, but he did not press further.

The third gentleman… no. The third man was undoubtedly one of those your father wished to court you.

The Duke of Rosevale.

He was easily twice your age. A few streaks of gray showed within his beard and at his temples, though they did nothing to soften the rigidity of his expression or the severity of his bearing. He danced with perfect precision, without a single mistake… and without a single emotion.

“How many children do you wish to have?” He asked bluntly.

The world seemed to tilt slightly beneath your feet. For a moment, you feared losing your balance in the middle of the ballroom and becoming the evening’s most humiliating spectacle.

You were not prepared for that. Not for something so direct.

Your mind filled with possibilities, each one equally bitter.

To tell the truth, that you wanted no children.

To lie and offer an acceptable number.

To simply adapt yourself to whatever he desired.

“I wish to have four.” He continued before you could answer. “It is important that my future wife share that expectation.”

Your jaw tightened for the briefest instant before you managed to compose yourself again and you smiled exactly as much as was proper, fully aware of your father’s gaze upon you.

“Four sounds… appropriate.”

The following gentlemen were similar in essence. Only the titles and names changed. All of them fulfilling the duty society had dictated for them. All of them watching, analyzing, and evaluating the young women from head to toe. All searching within them for something that fit their predefined idea of a wife and the future mother of their children.

None of them seemed interested in anything else.

Not in thoughts or desires.

Not in anything that could not be measured through virtue, beauty, or convenience.

As you turned once more in the arms of the ninth gentleman, your gaze drifted across the ballroom and recognized several faces. Faces of young ladies who, like you, were being observed and classified. And yet, you knew who they truly were.

Bella Crane, whose kindness knew no limits, always finding ways to help those no one else bothered to notice.

Sarah Astor, whose voice could reach notes so pure they seemed impossible, as though they did not entirely belong to this world.

Hanna Bellerose, capable of mastering any instrument, transforming every sound into something alive, something that made people feel.

Elizabeth Hawthorne, with a library that astonished you and an intellect capable of leaving anyone speechless.

All extraordinary women — women who, if given the opportunity and the desire, could have become far more than wives, far more than mothers. Yet there they were. Turning, smiling, and waiting to be chosen by men who, in many cases, did not amount to even half of what they were.

The injustice of it tightened painfully around your chest.

You left the dance floor the moment your final dance ended, offering the closest thing to a polite excuse you could manage. You could feel your emotions gathering dangerously behind your eyes, threatening to spill into tears you could not afford.

Not there.

Not in front of everyone.

You had barely taken a few steps when you felt Leah’s gentle hand wrap around your arm.

“Do you remember the mysterious doctor?” She whispered with contained excitement. “Lady Albemarle introduced him! He is… fascinating. He has incredible stories. I am certain you would love listening to him.”

You felt the slight tug at your arm, her intention to guide you back toward the center of the ballroom, toward constant observation.

But you stopped.

“I am sorry, Leah…” Your voice emerged tighter than intended, caught in the knot lodged within your throat. “I need some air. Afterward… you may introduce me to him.”

Leah studied you for only a second longer, and that was enough for her to notice your shining eyes. She released your arm, though not before giving it a soft, almost comforting squeeze.

“Go.” She said.

And you did not hesitate.

You made your way through the guests, maintaining the polite smile etiquette demanded while your insides quietly unraveled. You did not stop until you found one of the open balconies tucked away from the noise.

The London night greeted you with a cool breeze that sharply contrasted with the suffocating warmth of the ballroom. The garden stretched before you, bathed in silver moonlight. Pale gravel paths wound between perfectly trimmed hedges, while the shadows of the trees stretched across the grass like whispers.

The distant echo of music and the murmur of the wind were your only companions.

Yet you still could not breathe properly. It felt as though your lungs had shrunk to the size of grapes, your bones were made of glass, and the weight of the necklace was breaking them one by one.

You placed your hands upon the cold stone railing and closed your eyes, holding back the tears you had managed to suppress throughout the night. Desperation was beginning to consume you, and one of your hands was already moving toward the necklace around your throat, ready to tear it away, when a voice made you stop.

“The first ball of the season is usually… overwhelming.”

The male voice came from your left. It was not loud, but there was something strangely soft and familiar about it that kept you from startling despite never having heard his footsteps approach.

You slowly opened your eyes, searching for the man.

He stood leaning one hip against the railing at a respectful distance. Shadows still concealed part of his figure, but you could distinguish the essentials: tall, broad-shouldered, dressed entirely in black, elegant… effortlessly so, without the unnecessary extravagance of the nobles inside the ballroom.

His voice was unfamiliar to you, and his accent made it clear he did not belong to London.

And then, the threads connected.

The doctor.

For one second, neither of you spoke or moved. Not until he stepped slightly forward and the chandelier light filtering through the open doors reached him, revealing his face.

He was younger than you had imagined and… far too handsome. His beauty was different, yet strangely similar to that of the earls. Too perfect, almost to the point of seeming unnatural.

His dark hair fell in deliberately careless strands across his forehead. His lips, softly curved, hinted at an expression that never fully revealed itself.

And his eyes… his eyes were the first thing that truly captured your attention.

Not because they were an especially striking shade of blue, but because they seemed to observe the world with an intensity that was far too calm and far too aware. As though he were accustomed to seeing things others did not. As though he carried all the knowledge in the world within him.

“Forgive me.” You finally said, recovering control of your voice. “I did not realize the balcony was occupied.”

“It was not.” He replied. “I arrived only a moment ago.

There was something curious about the way he spoke. Proper, certainly, but lacking the polished rhythm of London aristocracy.

“Then I suppose we both had the same idea.”

The gentleman’s faint smile deepened slightly, and you were already preparing to excuse yourself and return to the ballroom.

“To escape.”

The certainty with which he said the word caught you off guard and halted your plans.

“Take a breath.” You corrected diplomatically.

“Oh, of course.” He replied, his smile widening further.

Silence settled between you once again, allowing the music from the ballroom to drift through the open doors. You glanced back inside, thinking that with the beginning of another waltz, your father would soon begin searching for you once he realized you were no longer dancing with a gentleman.

When you finally dared to look at him again, you discovered he was still watching you. Not in the shameless manner some men had during the dances, but with something more curious. As though he were trying to understand you.

“Your first ball?”

You sighed softly while something resembling a defeated smile appeared upon your lips.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only a little.”

He did not seem to be mocking you with the comment, merely observing.

“Allow me to guess.” He continued gently. “You have spent the last several hours being introduced to gentlemen and dancing endlessly while they speak about their estates or their excellent reputations.”

A quiet laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it.

“Are you a fortune teller, doctor?”

“No, merely a good observer.” He said with a smile, briefly turning toward the ballroom. “Though I believe you may be one. How did you know I am a doctor?”

“You do not belong here.” You answered honestly. “And you have become quite the subject of conversation.”

A faint curve appeared upon his lips.

“I am afraid that is true.”

For some reason, the air upon the balcony seemed to have grown colder. Or perhaps it was simply you.

“I have heard… interesting things.” You added. “That you saved the earl and his wife.”

“Yes. I…” He paused, as though the word weighed heavily upon him. “saved them.”

You noticed it, though you did not know what to say in response, allowing another silence to settle between you. But for the first time since arriving at the ball, you no longer felt the need to leave now that you had finally found someone… interesting.

“We have not properly introduced ourselves.” He said at last. “James Buchanan Barnes.” He inclined his head slightly. “And you? Who is the lady escaping from her first ball?”

You offered a graceful curtsy and were about to give your name when footsteps interrupted you.

“Oh.”

It was Leah’s voice, surprised to find you standing beside Doctor Barnes.

“I did not expect to find you here, doctor.” Leah said as she approached your side.

“I needed some fresh air.” He replied naturally. “I am not accustomed to events such as this.”

Leah nodded before turning toward you.

“Your father is looking for you. He wishes to introduce you to Lord Willowmere for your final dance.”

The name fell like stone, and the calm you had found shattered immediately.

Lord Willowmere. A man your father’s age. With a dukedom.

The mere thought that he wished to pair you with that man — even if only for a dance — made your stomach twist.

“Forgive me, Lady Blackthorne.” Barnes interrupted gently. “But I have already requested the young lady’s final dance.”

Your eyes widened slightly at hearing James tell such a lie, but one glance into his eyes was enough to understand that he was helping you avoid dancing with an unwanted suitor.

“It is true.” You added quickly. “We were just about to go inside and write it upon my dance card.”

Leah stared at you.

You knew she was hesitating because of the negative opinion your father would undoubtedly have on the matter, believing it entirely improper for a young lady such as yourself to dance with a man who did not belong to high society — or even to London.

At last, she nodded softly.

“I shall inform your father.”

The tension upon your shoulders vanished at those words, and you were finally able to breathe again.

Leah began returning toward the ballroom, though not before casting one final curious glance over her shoulder.

When you were alone once more, Barnes stepped toward you and extended his arm in a clear invitation.

“We should return inside.” He said with a faint smile. “I would hate to miss our dance.”

You hesitated for only a second before accepting.

Your hand rested upon his arm, and a shiver ran through you at the contact. It felt different. Colder… yet firm and real.

☆

You reentered the ballroom accompanied by him, and that did not go unnoticed.

The conversations did not stop entirely, but some shifted direction. Glances began sliding toward the two of you — curious and evaluating, some barely concealed behind delicately raised feathered fans.

You walked with your back straight, maintaining the composure that had been drilled into you for years, while he guided you toward the dance floor with a natural ease that did not quite belong within that environment.

Your hand tensed slightly, clutching the fabric of his coat for the briefest moment as the first murmurs began to grow louder.

No matter what they said, you already knew what your father would see.

An insult.

Poor judgment.

Defiance.

And yet, none of that made you stop.

When you reached the dance floor, you stood facing one another, mirroring the position of the other couples awaiting the start of the music.

Everything appeared normal, except for him.

You noticed the way his gaze moved carefully through the room, not admiring the decorations or watching the ladies, but studying the gentlemen. Their posture. The distance between their hands.

As though he were learning… or remembering.

“Do you know how to dance, doctor?” You asked quietly, softly enough that only he could hear.

His eyes returned to you almost immediately, and then he smiled. There was something unexpected within that smile. A trace of embarrassment that did not quite fit with his calm and confident demeanor.

“I have not danced since 1683…” He murmured. “So I suppose I am somewhat out of practice.”

The comment was so absurd that, for a moment, you felt laughter rise within your throat, though you restrained it. Only the faintest curve touched your lips.

“Then I shall have to guide you.”

His hand settled at your waist while the other held yours. And once more, that shiver traveled down your spine because of the unnatural coldness of his hands, even through your gloves and the silk of your gown. It was far too distinct to ignore. Constant and unchanging, as though warmth simply did not belong to him.

The music began, and the first step was slow and measured. He hesitated for only an instant before moving with you.

He did not move with the effortless ease of the other gentlemen, but neither was he clumsy.

It was as though he were learning in real time and yet executing every motion with unsettling precision.

The waltz enveloped you just as it did every other couple, but for you it was different because you were not being evaluated. You were not being observed as a possibility. There were no expectations and no calculations, only presence.

“You do not seem uncomfortable.” He commented after several moments. “I thought you disliked dancing.”

“Compared to the rest of the evening… this is a relief.”

“I am glad to be an improvement.”

Your gaze drifted briefly toward the other guests, and upon noticing your father’s figure, you quickly looked back at James. And then you realized something.

He was not looking at your neckline, nor your hands, nor your posture. He was looking directly into your eyes, as though everything else were irrelevant.

“You do not belong here.” You said without thinking.

“I do not.” He replied simply. “London is rather… rigid compared to what I am accustomed to.”

Curiosity stirred within you with almost reckless speed.

“And what are you accustomed to, doctor?” You asked as he spun you gently.

“Freedom.” He said. “Moving without every action being observed… or judged. Crossing cities without announcing my name. Learning without anyone expecting anything of me.”

His voice was not nostalgic.

It was simply… truthful.

“The world is vast.” He continued. “Far more vast than people here imagine. There are places where medicine is not learned from books, but from the hands of elders, from herbs and roots. Places where languages change every few miles… and customs as well.”

You looked at him carefully.

There was something in the way he spoke. It was not the shallow fascination of other gentlemen who boasted about traveling and wasting fortunes on jewels or women. Doctor Barnes spoke with lived knowledge.

“Have you never left London?”

You shook your head softly before he spun you once more.

“And do you wish to?”

The question was gentle, but direct.

“More than anything.”

The words left your lips before you could stop them, and for the first time that entire evening, you did not regret speaking a genuine desire aloud.

His thumb moved slightly against your gloved hand. A minimal gesture that did not go unnoticed.

“If you had the opportunity...” He asked after a moment of silence. “Would you leave?”

Your entire world seemed to narrow to that question.

To that instant.

Remaining silent felt like accepting the fate imposed upon you, and that was something impossible.

“Yes.”

His lips curved faintly, though it was not a full smile. There was something else within it… something melancholic.

“Then London would never know what it lost.”

Your breath caught for a second.

You knew those words should have made you uncomfortable, that you should have begun placing distance between the two of you, yet you did not.

The waltz began nearing its end. You felt it in the rhythm, in the way the couples slowly began to slow, in how reality itself started returning.

“Doctor…” You murmured, uncertain of what you had intended to say.

“James.”

You blinked in confusion, tilting your head slightly.

“Excuse me?”

“Call me James.”

That was not appropriate.

It was not proper.

It was not prudent.

You parted your lips softly, ready to explain that such familiarity was improper after only a single dance, that a gentleman should never ask such a thing of a lady, but the words died in your throat when you noticed something strange.

His steel-blue eyes had darkened.

Not dark blue, nor a shadow cast by the lighting, but black — the kind of black you had seen only in polished obsidian.

“Your eyes…” You whispered almost breathlessly, your eyes widening in bewilderment.

For the first time, James completely lost his composure.

You saw the sudden tension in his jaw, the rigidity of his shoulders, and the way his fingers pulled away from yours almost violently, as though touching you burned him.

The final chord of the waltz echoed through the ballroom, and he stepped back immediately.

“Thank you for the dance.” He said in a low, hurried voice utterly unlike the calm control he had carried before.

You stood frozen for a second, still stunned by the change in his eyes. Your immediate instinct was to follow him and ask what had happened, but a rough hand seized your forearm harshly.

“We are leaving.” Your father said sharply. “Now.”

You barely turned your head toward him, and it was easy to see how fury hardened every line of his aged face.

He gave you no time to answer before dragging you away from the dance floor, forcing you to move through guests, decorated tables, and musicians who continued playing for the remaining couples.

And even beneath your father’s iron grip, you looked back, just in time to catch sight of James disappearing into the shadows of one of the corridors.

☆

“Do you realize what you have done?” Your father’s voice cut through the interior of the carriage like a whip. “You danced with the most unsuitable man in the room. You displayed yourself like a foolish girl and made a mockery of me.”

You sighed silently while staring out at the deserted storefronts, dark alleyways, and the soft glow of the lanterns illuminating the road home.

“People will start talking tomorrow morning.” Your father continued through clenched teeth. “A doctor? What were you thinking?”

Your hands tightened once more around the fabric of your skirt, swallowing the urge to rebel because with James, it had not seemed necessary to measure every word before speaking it. Perhaps because he was a man who seemed destined to leave at any moment, or because he simply could never be considered a real possibility.

So you remained silent, clinging to the hope that the quiet would allow you to think about James and the strange, unsettling transformation of his eyes.

It could not have been merely the lighting.

Was it an illness?

Some strange condition?

Why had he reacted that way?

And why had the earls seemed so alarmed?

Your breathing slowed as you remembered something else: the cold.

His hands had been freezing even inside the warm ballroom, colder than the winter air at Blackthorne Hall. Colder than the snow gathering upon the windows of the countryside estate.

That cold… It twisted your stomach because you had felt it once before. Many years ago, when you touched your mother’s hand during her wake.

A shiver ran down your spine.

That realization should have terrified you enough to stay away from him or forget Doctor Barnes immediately, yet you felt no fear.

Only a deep and dangerous curiosity.

“I forbid you from going near that man again.” Your father declared at last. “Did you hear me?”

☆

Once again, you sat before the mirror of your vanity, watching your reflection while the maid carefully removed the small pins holding your hairstyle in place. One by one, the strands began slipping over your shoulders until they fell in soft waves down your back.

The heavy, elaborate updo slowly disappeared, just like the mask you had worn throughout the entire evening.

Your face was already free of the makeup the maids had spent hours applying before the ball. No powder, no color upon your lips, no artificial blush painted across your cheeks. At last, it felt as though your skin could breathe again.

And yet, the pressure in your chest remained there as your father’s voice carried through the walls. You could not distinguish every word clearly, but the tone alone was enough to reveal his fury.

You thought of Leah.

Guilt settled over you immediately with crushing weight.

Leah had been the least responsible for the entire situation, and yet she was likely enduring the anger truly meant for you.

The maid removed the final pin from your hair before placing it upon the silver tray beside the rest of the jewelry.

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight, miss?” She asked softly, perhaps searching for conversation or simply trying to ease the heavy silence filling the room.

You did not answer immediately.

Your gaze remained fixed upon the mirror as you mentally revisited the evening — the graceless nobles, the endless hours upon the dance floor that had felt like torture, the life within society that you did not want — yet James’s image entered your thoughts uninvited.

You could not deny that, within this disastrous night, you had at least managed to find one interesting man among nobles who possessed nothing remarkable beyond their place within the hierarchy.

“I suppose… a little.” You answered at last.

The maid smiled faintly as she stepped closer to remove the diamond necklace from your throat.

The moment the clasp released, a sigh escaped you before you even realized you had been holding it. The tension gathered within your shoulders eased slightly.

Your hands immediately rose to your earrings, removing them one by one before placing them carefully inside the small velvet box.

You stood so the maid could help remove your gown. Her fingers began loosening the ribbons along your back while the fabric slowly slid down your body until it pooled around your feet in a circle of silk and embroidery.

Then you heard footsteps approaching, and from the sound of the slippers alone you knew it was Leah.

When she entered, the maid had only just begun undoing the laces of your corset.

There was something unsettling upon Leah’s face.

“Anne, I shall help the young lady. You may leave.”

The maid immediately stopped what she was doing, offered a small curtsy, and quietly made her way toward the door.

Leah stepped behind you and began loosening the corset ribbons with slow, precise movements.

“I am truly sorry.” You said at last, unable to continue bearing the weight of your guilt. “I never meant to cause problems between you and my father.”

She merely released a tired sigh while slowly loosening the garment that had been constricting your waist mercilessly.

“There are always problems with your father.” She replied calmly as she continued undoing the knot. “And honestly… I do not mind that you avoided dancing with a man like Lord Willowmere.”

A bitter feeling crossed your chest at the thought of the old duke.

“Then I do not understand why you seem this way.”

Leah finished loosening the corset and carefully removed it before gently turning you around to face her.

The moment your eyes met hers, you saw concern… and something close to fear.

“But why dance with Doctor Barnes?” She murmured in disbelief.

“He only helped me.” You answered naturally.

Leah stared at you for a moment as though unsure how to respond.

“Or perhaps he was taking advantage of the situation.”

Confusion settled across your face.

“Taking advantage? Leah, he was kind to me.”

“That does not mean you should trust him.”

Her tone was not severe. It was… cautious. As though she were trying to warn you about something she did not quite know how to explain.

“At the ball, you told me I should meet him.” You reminded her. “That he was interesting. That he had fascinating stories.”

“And he does.” She admitted quickly. “But that does not change the fact that no one truly knows him… or what his intentions were when he approached you.”

The room fell silent for several seconds, and with every passing moment you could tell Leah was struggling to say what she truly wanted.

“Leah, the fact that I accepted a dance from him does not mean I am enchanted by him.” You said softly, trying to calm whatever fears she seemed to harbor.

☆

The ballroom was packed with people, though none of them seemed truly clear to your eyes. Their faces blurred like watercolor smudges painted with a brush that was too wet every time you tried to focus on them, turning into faceless figures shrouded in silk, jewels, and dark suits.

The candles suspended from enormous golden chandeliers cast a strangely warm light—too golden, too soft—as if the entire room were shrouded in a dreamlike veil.

The guests’ voices reached you distorted, transformed into distant murmurs and incomprehensible echoes, even when some passed mere inches from your body. There was laughter, clinking glasses, and entire conversations unfolding around you, but they sounded muffled, as if you were listening to them from underwater.

The only thing that remained clear was the music.

The sound of the waltz floated flawlessly amid the blurred chaos of the room, every note of the violin and every chord of the piano resonating with unsettling precision within your chest. It was an elegant, melancholic melody that seemed to guide your steps even without you realizing it. And although the place was completely unfamiliar to you—even though you were certain you had never set foot in that hall in your entire life—fear never truly set in. There was unease, yes. A strange sense of unreality that slowly churned your stomach. But not fear.

You walked cautiously through the gaps left by the people as they laughed and drank around you. The women held fans decorated with lace and sparkling stones; the men raised crystal glasses filled with dark wine as they chatted near the marble columns. With every step, the polished floor reflected the candlelight as if it were liquid water. Your fingers absentmindedly brushed against one of the long tables laden with fruit, desserts, and silver dishes as you tried in vain to recognize something in that place.

Then you saw it.

A huge wall mirror stood between two columns, so tall it almost touched the ceiling. The golden frame was carved with exquisite details: intertwined leaves, blooming flowers, and angelic figures that seemed to watch you from the aged wood. You stopped in front of it and held your breath for a moment.

The young woman reflected there was you… and yet, at the same time, she wasn’t.

The dress you were wearing was completely different from any of the others you owned. The red fabric draped over your body like a cascade of dark wine, shimmering in the warm light of the ballroom. It was a deep, intense red—exactly the color you had always loved, yet one your father strictly forbade, considering it vulgar and unbecoming for a young lady. The long sleeves gently hugged your arms, while the black and gold embroidery snaked across the silk, forming patterns that looked as if they were handmade. Even the tiny stones sewn near the bodice sparkled discreetly with every breath you took.

Slowly, you raised a hand to brush the fabric near your waist, watching, fascinated, as it shone in the light.

For a moment, you forgot how strange the place felt. You stood there watching your reflection as if you were looking at someone else. There was something different about you besides the dress. Something in your posture, in the way you held your gaze, in the sparkle in your eyes.

You forced yourself to look away and pick up your pace.

Your footsteps echoed softly on the floor as you walked through the hall, taking in the enormous paintings hanging on the walls. Portraits of faceless men dressed in military uniforms. Pale-skinned women adorned with antique jewelry. Snowy landscapes under gray skies.

None of them looked familiar to you and then your shoulder bumped into someone. The impact was slight, but enough to make you take a step back.

“I’m so sorry…” You said immediately as you looked up.

The man turned toward you.

And for the first time since you arrived at that place, you saw a face that was completely clear. Your breath caught in your throat.

Dr. Barnes.

There was no mist obscuring his features, nor shadows distorting him. His blue eyes were perfectly defined under the golden light of the room, and his expression bore the same serene calm you knew so well. Dark hair fell slightly over his forehead, and he wore an elegant black suit with silver accents that looked as if it had been plucked from another era.

“Doctor Barnes…” You whispered, unable to hide the surprise in your voice.

He tilted his head slightly, and a small smile appeared on his lips.

“Miss.” His voice sounded soft, calm, dangerously familiar in the midst of that place. “I thought I told you you could call me James.”

You blinked several times, trying to shake off the daze that had enveloped you. Your throat suddenly felt dry.

“It’s not right to call him that…” You replied in a low voice, glancing around discreetly as if you expected someone to be watching them.

But no one seemed to be paying them any attention.

The blurry figures continued laughing, dancing, and chatting among themselves. It was as if the two of you were isolated from the rest of the room, trapped inside a silent bubble.

James kept watching you with that strange calmness.

“And who exactly would come to correct you?” He asked softly.

You frowned slightly.

“Someone might hear us.”

“No one here will care.”

His answer came immediately, firm, almost certain.

And it seemed true.

Your fingers tightened slightly on the fabric of your dress as you looked around again. The confusion inside you kept growing. Everything was too strange. Too real to be a dream and too impossible to be anything else.

Finally, you looked at him again.

“What is this place?” You asked at last, unable to bear the uncertainty any longer.

Your eyes scanned the room again, searching for any familiar detail: a familiar door, a recognizable face, something that would help you understand where you were. But you found nothing.

James looked around the room too, though unlike you, he didn’t seem confused. There was an unsettling calm in his expression, as if he already knew the answer long before you’d even asked the question.

“I don’t know.” He replied calmly.

Your brow furrowed immediately, for you were sure he had the answer.

There was a brief silence.

The music continued to play in the distance as he held your gaze.

Your eyes swept once more across the enormous candlelit hall, the antique gowns, the uniforms adorned with medals, and the golden ornaments covering every corner. You began to notice details you had previously overlooked: the men wore styles and fabrics far too old-fashioned to belong to your era, and the women wore jewelry that looked like relics impossible to find today.

Your breathing slowed slightly.

“That’s not possible…” You finally murmured.

James tilted his head slightly, watching you with such calm attention that it was starting to make you nervous.

“It doesn’t seem like it, I know.”

“No, Doctor Barnes, I’m serious.” You shook your head gently as you took a step toward him. “This has to be some kind of hallucination.”

The theory sounded ridiculous even to you, since the details were too real, and you didn’t even remember having a fever that would cause hallucinations.

He let out a small, barely audible laugh, more like an amused sigh than a real chuckle.

You opened your mouth, ready to keep talking, but you couldn’t think of anything else to say. Your gaze returned to the ballroom just as a couple glided past you, dancing slowly to the rhythm of the waltz. Their movements were elegant, perfectly synchronized, but their faces remained blurry smudges, unable to take shape. It was like watching shadows playing the roles of real people.

You shuddered.

“You seem to understand perfectly what’s happening.” You murmured.

The music continued to fill the ballroom as some guests began moving toward the center to dance. The sound of the instruments seemed deeper now, enveloping, almost hypnotic.

“Perhaps I understand it a little better than you do.” He replied.

“Then explain it to me.”

James glanced down briefly at your dress before returning his gaze to your eyes.

“It’s a dream.”

The word hung between you, and yet nothing really felt like one.

James took a step closer to you, close enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the chill of the night air that seemed to cling to him.

His proximity made your heart stumble uncomfortably in your chest. You looked down for just a moment but didn’t look away.

“If this is a dream of mine, I can’t think of any reason why you’d be here.”

The corners of his lips turned up in a faint smile that betrayed the fact that he had been expecting you to mention his presence in your dream.

“Oh, there certainly is.” He said in a soft voice.

James leaned slightly toward one of the nearby tables and took a glass of wine between his gloved fingers. The thick, red liquid swirled slowly inside the glass as he swirled it gently.

Your eyes remained fixed on the glass as he brought it slightly closer to his face, inhaling the aroma with an almost hypnotic slowness that was only broken when he looked up at you.

“You owe me something.”

You frowned immediately.

“Me?”

A small smile appeared on his face as he noticed your confusion.

“Your name,” He said, then took a sip.

The memory of the dance came flooding back to you.

That moment on the balcony.

Her question.

Your lips parting to answer, until Leah interrupted.

“You couldn’t tell me that night,” He continued. “And I must admit, I hate unfinished conversations.”

Your breathing slowed.

“So this strange dream exists solely because you want to know my name?”

This time he did smile.

And it was a soft, small, barely crooked smile, as if you’d hit the mark.

“It’s your dream,” He replied in a relaxed, almost playful tone. “So I must assume your conscience weighs heavily on you for not having told me on that balcony.”

You looked at him in surprise for a few seconds until a soft, amused snort escaped your lips—almost like a laugh—at his eloquent and clever reply.

James seemed to freeze for just a second upon hearing it. As if he hadn’t expected that sound, nor expected to like it all that much.

“That was terribly arrogant, Doctor.”

“James.” He corrected gently.

The gesture caused a strange warmth in your chest.

“And that doesn’t really answer my question either.”

“What question?”

“Why you’re here.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching you with that unbearable intensity that seemed to disarm you little by little.

“Maybe because you wanted to see me.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“That’s absurd.” You said quickly.

“Is it?”

His voice dropped slightly, growing softer amid the music in the hall.

“Maybe I’m here because you’ve been thinking about me.”

The comment caught you completely off guard. Your eyes widened slightly as heat rose to your cheeks.

“That’s not…”

You didn’t dare deny it because it was true.

You’d been thinking about him the whole way back.

About his impossible eyes.

About his icy hands.

About the abrupt way he’d pulled away from you.

And he seemed to realize exactly the moment you understood that. The barely visible satisfaction in his eyes made you frown.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.” You murmured.

“I’m trying, but you’re making it hard for me.”

You laughed softly again, shaking your head slightly.

All of this felt dangerously normal.

Not the strange room.

Not the blurry figures.

Not the impossible dream.

But him.

Talking to James felt natural in a way that was starting to unsettle you more than anything else, even if it was just a dream, because you weren’t carefully choosing every word or trying to seem appropriate.

You were simply… yourself.

“I have to admit something.” He said after a few seconds.

“What is it?”

Her eyes briefly drifted down to the red dress before meeting yours again.

“This color suits you better than the pastel shades worn by London ladies.”

You blinked in surprise and then looked down at the dress on your body. That deep red you could never wear out because it was too flashy.

“My father would say it looks like the dress of a woman… of dubious reputation.”

James held your gaze for a few more seconds.

“I still think you look good in that dress.”

The air seemed to thicken between you, and it happened again. That strange sensation, as if something invisible tightened every time he looked at you for too long.

Your heart began to beat faster, and your hands clenched the hem of your dress.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why?” He asked, tilting his head.

“Because you don’t know me.”

James’s expression barely changed, as if the melancholy that always followed him returned to his eyes with a painful gentleness.

“I think I know you better than you imagine.”

His reply made the heat drain from your body all at once, because it didn’t sound like his usual playful banter. It sounded sad—deeply sad. And the way he said it… God… It was just one sentence, and yet it felt far too intimate.

You looked away before he could notice the effect it had on you and tried to focus on something else, but that was when you noticed something strange.

The room was emptier—not completely, but several of the blurry figures had vanished. The couples were dancing more slowly now, as if they were tired, as if the dream were slowly beginning to crumble around you.

“James…” You murmured his name for the first time.

The deep sadness faded little by little from his gaze as he followed yours, observing the same changes you did.

“There isn’t much time left…” He looked back at you. “Her name. Tell me.”

The violin notes stretched out unnaturally, the lights in the hall flickered, and the blurry figures began to stop one by one.

Your lips trembled slightly from the unease caused by the strange scene, but you managed to whisper his name.

James smiled gently and murmured your name as if he were simply testing how it sounded in his own voice. He spoke it so calmly that it felt like a caress.

The mirrors exploded first, cracking from end to end before shattering like ice under invisible pressure, without making a sound. The lights went out violently, and the floor beneath your feet began to crack as the motionless figures in the room dissolved into dark shadows.

And despite all the chaos, you felt no fear as you noticed the calm way James was looking at you.

The entire room shattered like glass around you.

☆

You opened your eyes with a start.

Your breathing was slightly ragged as the sheets were tangled around your legs and your heart was still pounding against your ribs. For a few seconds, you didn’t realize where you were. Your eyes scanned the room, still expecting to find golden lights, broken mirrors, or shadows covering the walls; but there was nothing, just your room.

Your thick curtains remained closed, and only a small strip of morning light filtered through them, casting a pale line on the floor. The air smelled faintly of lavender and wood, just like every morning.

You slowly looked down at your body.

You were still wearing the same nightgown you’d gone to bed in the night before. Your hands trembled slightly as you clutched the sheets.

It had been a dream, and yet… It had felt all too real.

The unease clung to your chest like a shadow that was hard to shake off. You could recall every detail with sickening clarity: the sound of the music, the feel of the red silk brushing against your skin… and especially James’s voice saying your name.

It wasn’t like other dreams.

Those usually faded away as soon as you woke up, turning into blurry fragments impossible to piece back together. But this one remained intact inside your head, as clear as a real memory.

You sat up slowly in bed, bringing a hand to your forehead as you tried to gather your thoughts.

A soft knock on the door interrupted your thoughts before you could sink deeper into them

The door opened shortly after, and the maid entered the room carrying several folded fabrics in her arms. As soon as she looked up at you, her expression showed obvious surprise.

“Good morning, miss.” She said softly. “I thought you were still asleep.”

You blinked several times before reacting.

“Good morning…”

The maid moved quickly through the room and opened the heavy curtains. Sunlight flooded the room all at once, forcing you to squint slightly. The sky was just beginning to lighten, casting a bluish and golden glow over the outside world.

It was earlier than usual.

The maid continued working with quiet agility. She placed a pair of slippers carefully next to your bed and then went to the wardrobe to fetch a soft blue dress. The fabric fell elegantly through her hands as she spread it out on the mattress.

Your gaze remained fixed on the dress for a few seconds.

Blue.

Always blue, cream, or white.

Appropriate colors. Decent. Proper.

Nothing like red.

“Your father asked me to help you get ready early for when your suitors arrive.” The maid explained as she smoothed out the dress’s sleeves. “The bath is ready for you.”

The words hit you like a bucket of cold water.

Reality came crashing back all at once.

The duties. The expectations. The rules you had to follow as a young lady of high society. The carefully arranged visits. The polite smiles. The empty conversations. The men chosen for convenience and title.

Your chest suddenly felt heavy.

You slowly lowered your gaze to the crumpled sheets between your fingers while the maid continued to get everything ready around you.

And as absurd as it was, a part of you wished to return to the dream.

To that impossible place where no one expected anything of you, where you could wear red, and where James pronounced your name as if it truly meant something.