...♡...

-e L o W e N-

-p A r T r I d G e-

Again, I was in this boring ballroom. The smell of whiskey was so disgusting, and the overpowering perfume gave me a headache. I was probably a little drunk just from inhaling all that whiskey in the air. Luckily, a waiter came by with some juice, and I took it without hesitation.

At least-something good.

I was humming a tune under my breath, bored out of my mind by all the constant flirting.

I recognized the song playing. She was singing it so smoothly, and thankfully, I had memorized the lyrics.

...♡...

This is a ballroom where "matches made in heaven" are formed-or, in simpler terms, it's just another party where everyone flirts and dances. I've never dared to dance with anyone. I always refuse, as politely as I can. But sometimes, I'm forced to go along with it.

Why do I refuse?

First, I don't know how to dance. Well-I did learn it once, but that was three years ago.

Second, I hate how they touch me-like I'm some plush toy to squeeze. I don't know, maybe everyone has their own preferences, and mine just happen to be... not so touchy with strangers.

I did want to dance, truly-but I always got scared by all the gazes fixed on me. Besides, I'm not confident in my body or the way I look. I try not to talk to men or women, because I don't want them to catch me off guard, expecting me to play along with their fantasies.

I just don't understand their obsession with these parties-flirting (ugh), drinking... I wrinkled my nose again as a woman stumbled past me, clearly drunk. You know, having sharp senses is more of a curse than a gift-especially the nose. Keen eyes and ears can be helpful, but a sensitive nose and mouth? They're like troublesome children, always reacting to the worst things. A burden, really-for spoiled and disobedient people like... well, me.

...♡...

It's not that I hate these things-I just never manage to fit in.

They're all so smart, while I'm labeled naive.

They're effortlessly beautiful, and I'm just 'okay.'

They're intelligent; I'm innocent or, worse, useless.

I'm everything they're not, and I'm tired of it.

My parents? Overprotective doesn't even begin to cover it.

I'm not allowed out-unless it's for one of these dreadfully dull ball parties.

Because apparently, that's where I'm supposed to find my so-called 'dear beloved husband;

...♡...

I was lost in my thoughts, letting the music carry me, when a gentleman approached. He was tall and lean, with a subtly strong physique. His hair was dark, eyes a piercing blue. His cheekbones were sculpted, much like his thick, expressive eyebrows.

"Excuse me, my lady,"

he said, his voice was like honey.

For a moment, I wanted nothing more than to simply listen to him speak. Each word felt like a note in a lullaby, and I felt an odd, irresistible urge to close my eyes-to feel the warmth of his voice wash over me.

And perhaps I did.

Because when I opened my eyes again, I realized... I already had.

I found him looking at me.

In those piercing blue eyes, I could see a storm of questions swelling, unasked but loud. He raised a thick, dark eyebrow, his expression dancing between curiosity and restraint. His thin, brownish-purple lips parted-as if to speak-but the words melted down his throat. He cleared it instead, his gaze drifting into the distance for half a second.

"My lady," he said finally, "I suppose the pretty young lady is feeling a bit bored at this party."

He pronounced each word like butter-smooth, deliberate, melting slowly into the air.

I gasped softly, trying to form some polite excuse, but he didn't let me.

"Well, I also find these ball parties quite dull,"

he leaned in, his voice barely a whisper, as if sharing a secret with the stars.

I was too stunned to speak.

My lips-traitorous as ever-curled into a smile before I could stop them.

...♡...

I didn't know if he was being genuine or just trying to get my attention, but the look in his eyes felt more real than any filter. Maybe I could give him a little attention. After all, he was the only company I had tonight-at least for now. My only friends were the ones framed in that picture, yet.

I don't think it would hurt to talk to someone who seemed more real, less filtered.

His eyes narrowed slightly at my hand, which was cradling a glass of juice, then flicked to his own. Probably a wine glass. Yet, surprisingly, it looked untouched. My brows furrowed. Maybe it was a new glass, or maybe he just didn't want to get drunk tonight. But the way he was fidgeting with the glass-more than holding it-told a different story. It was like he was supposed to hold it, to keep up an appearance, but hadn't even considered taking a sip.

His forehead wrinkled as he placed the glass gently on the table. There was a kind of eagerness in his movements, like he just wanted to get rid of it. As if the glass were cursed or poisoned. As soon as his fingers were free, he rubbed them, like he was trying to wipe away the feel of the glass-or maybe something more.

I almost let out a small tsk at that classic "don't-like-cheap-things" gesture-the kind that most wealthy princes do once they start feeling out of place, even if they're not. That's how they're taught to act, how they're taught to be.

"You might not believe me, but I don't like drinks," he said, his voice calm. "I actually prefer fruit juice. Don't think I'm showing off. I was just pretending to be a 'man of words' for my father. He said I should be gentle and act like one."

He looked up at me, that same conflicted look lingering in his eyes. For a second, his gaze flickered to the side, but it came back to me too quickly for me to tell where it had gone.

"I have observed all the men in parties like these, holds a glass of wine, so I did too." He waved his long, slender fingers in a slow circle, gesturing at the room around us.

Then he leaned slightly over the table and whispered, "If you've noticed, they're all giggling at senseless jokes and tossing out half-hearted, fake compliments. They're flirting with the intoxication that smells like hell."

His eyes caught a passing waiter, and in one swift, practiced move, he picked up two glasses of juice from the tray and set them on the table.

"They're all so pathetic," he muttered, staring down at the glasses. "They don't do it from the heart. They just want to flaunt their status."

He adjusted the glasses on the table, carefully aligning them like an artist arranging a scene. I couldn't blame him. I often did the same.

...♡...

My lips parted to say something, but he continued before I could.

"This one's for you-yours looked almost finished," he said, pointing to my glass. "I'm only here because of my father. If it weren't for him, I'd never come to these boring, so-called high-five parties." He rolled his eyes.

Why was he talking to me like I was an old friend?

"You know," he added, holding up two fingers, "alcohol smells even worse when you don't drink. Twice-I've nearly thrown up."

I giggled at his innocence and shook my head. He clearly didn't belong at these parties-or maybe he just didn't want to. Just like me. A smile tugged at his lips too.

"I came to you because you look like the only girl here close to my age. Otherwise-" He tilted his head slightly, that admirer-like expression flashing for a second before his eyes flicked around the room."-all the women here are older."

I nodded in agreement. I knew exactly what he meant. There's something oddly comforting about finding someone your age in a crowd that feels too polished and distant.

He picked up the juice glass and took a small sip, eyes still studying me.

"So tell me, my lady, why are you here?"

I narrowed my eyes, glancing sideways. So that was his move-get me curious, engage me in a conversation. Smooth. So smooth, I hadn't even noticed when it began. He was testing the waters, crafting a dialogue that would keep me hooked. Like a chef with a new recipe-tasting, adjusting, molding it to his own flavor.

A clever move.

And I liked it.

"The party's at my house-well, my grandparents'. So of course, I had to be here, even if I'm not the least bit interested." I rolled my eyes.

Then he let out a soft chuckled. A real one.

He looked like a Greek god when he smiled-flawless, almost too flawless. But the little wrinkles under his eyes? They were reminders that he was real. Real, and yet somehow... not. For a moment, my heart skipped a beat.

I almost choked on my own breath.

The sound of his breathy chuckle is all I could ask for at this party. I've cursed this night a thousand times before even stepping through the door.

I blink twice and sip from my already empty glass. Oh-so this is the end. Strangely, the party doesn't feel as boring or suffocating as it did just moments ago. Is it because of his presence, or did everything truly settle down? Somehow, in the chaos of this palace, he managed to make me feel at ease.

I put down the glass and looked up at him, but he was already looking at me.

"My lady," he said, his voice soft with a touch of depth. "I can understand how it feels."

There was still a gentle smile playing on his light purplish-brown lips.

"No wonder-we're on the same page."

He leaned back slightly, nodding with smugness and unspoken understanding. We were proud-though perhaps we should be-of our tolerance and patience. Proud for surviving these suffocating parties. Maybe, years from now, they won't feel as torturous as they do now, but for the moment, we could still flex our endurance.

"I think you're right," I added. "And I also think these parties are secretly thrown to test our patience levels. There'll come a time when we break and blend in, but let's pray it's not too soon. Until then, we flex."

I tilted my head to the side and picked up a new glass. As I cradled it between my fingers, I gave a smug look and marked my words with a slight tilt of my hand in a mock 'cheers' gesture. My lips curled into a smirk, and his into a blown smile. He followed my gesture respectfully.

"I agree," he said, pausing before whispering, "My lady."

The way he whispered those two words-I could feel each and every letter roll off his tongue like he was tasting them before speaking. A jolt of electricity ran through my body. Silence settled comfortably between us, like we were taking careful bites from something rich and deep.

His eyes stayed locked with mine. And in that moment, as we drowned in each other's gaze, the bitter smells and low whispers of the party faded away, dissolving into the hollow hum of the background.

I let out a shaky breath. He straightened his back.

"My lady," he said, a playful glint in his eye, "mind if I ask the name of this granddaughter of the grandparents who were kind enough to throw this party and bless me with the chance to befriend a lady who's cursing it just like me?"

His words were so sweet and intricately woven that I almost lost track. I took a moment to process the game of his phrasing. A soft chuckle escaped my lips once I caught up.

"Not that I'm complaining. The juice is really nice and-"

He raised his hand and lifted his chin in mock surrender, then rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward, slowly and gently. His Armani suit brushed against the fabric of the tablecloth.

"I haven't tried the food yet, by the way," he said with a fake pained expression, placing a hand on his stomach. "And my stomach is glorifying the food more than I can resist."

I couldn't hold back the giggle, and he joined in. He was really funny-and cute.

"You're really something," I said.

"But my name is..."

I paused, resting my forearm on the table too. Our eyes stayed locked in their own silent conversation.

"Elowen."

I whispered it. He waited for me to continue-but I didn't.

"Okay, only Elowen!" he said with a slight furrow of his brow when he realized I wouldn't say more.

The moment he said my name, a shiver ran down my spine. The way it sounded from his mouth-so perfect. A mix of masculine whisper and honeyed sweetness.

"My... My name is-"

Before he could even whisper it, my friends popped up out of nowhere. Without any warning, they each slid an arm through mine and offered a quick, polite excuse to the young man.

There was a flash of surprise on his face. Mine, on the other hand, was a mask of disappointment. I had just missed the chance to learn the name of the first man in a long while who'd managed to keep me engaged-completely-with nothing but his words.

As I was dragged away, I glanced over my shoulder. Just one last glimpse of his face. I couldn't hear him, not over my friends' chatter, but I saw his lips move. A whisper.

Henry?

That name stuck with me.

Later, my friends explained their sudden intervention. "He could've been a pervert," one said with a roll of her eyes. "You don't even know him," the other added, full of conviction.

But I didn't take their warnings seriously-not after meeting him. Especially not coming from two girls who have actual crushes on red flags. I know them better than their own mothers do. It's hard to trust in their judgment.

..♡..