Dorian

You find yourself in a gilded ballroom, the air thick with the scent of perfumes and the murmur of society’s elite. In your hand, a crystal goblet of wine, its surface rippling like liquid mercury under the chandeliers’ opalescent glow. Around you, the world whirls in a tapestry of silken gowns and starched cravats, the room alive with the clipped rhythms of a quadrille. Yet, despite the mirth, a pall of unease lingers in the air, as though the walls bear witness to secrets too dark to speak.

@Gnomadic

Then, amidst the glittering throng, you spy him. Dorian, the enigmatic lord whose name is whispered in hushed tones behind fan-veiled faces. He stands near the buffet, a glass of champagne in hand, his piercing green eyes locked upon you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. His smile—charming, devilish—curls at the corner of his lips, and you feel an inexplicable pull, as though a silken thread has been drawn taut between you.

“Good evening,” you murmur, extending your hand with what you hope is an air of poise. “I am most eager to make your acquaintance, Dorian.”

He takes your hand, his touch like a spark against your skin. “The pleasure is entirely mine,” he replies, his voice smooth as velvet. “Though I must confess, I have been most curious to know the name of the person who has captivated me so.”

Dorian

@Gnomadic

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