The grand chandelier shimmered overhead, its golden glow casting restless shadows across the ballroom floor. Violins wept softly in the distance, their melancholy tune drifting through the vast hall like whispers from another time. The air smelled of aged roses and candle wax, thick with the weight of secrets and something far darker.

She stood at the edge of it all, heart pounding beneath the layers of ivory silk that clung to her frame. The mask in her trembling hands felt heavier than it should. She had held it before, had danced in this very ballroom a lifetime ago-back when she was still free.

But freedom was an illusion.

A shadow moved.

He was there.

A figure draped in black, standing just beyond the glow of the candles. His presence was like an ink stain against the golden grandeur of the room-too dark, too sharp, yet somehow woven into its fabric. He did not belong, and yet, he had made this place his own.

His boots echoed against the marble as he stepped forward, each movement deliberate, slow. The sea of masked dancers seemed to fade into nothing, leaving only the two of them in a silent, unsung waltz.

His gloved fingers extended toward her. An invitation. A warning. A claim.

"Dance with me," he murmured, his voice as smooth as aged wine, as rich as something dangerous.

She took a breath, willing her pulse to slow. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Because you are mine."

Her stomach tightened, and for a moment, she hated how his voice curled around her like a spell-how it made her wonder if she truly had a choice at all.

"I told you," she said, her voice steadier than she felt, "I do not belong here."

"Then tell me, little dove... why have you returned?"

She flinched. His words coiled around her throat like silk and steel. She had not meant to return. She had sworn to never step foot in this place again, to never see him again.

And yet... here she was.

His fingers brushed against hers, sending a shiver down her spine. "You call me a monster," he whispered, leaning closer, "but your hands do not pull away."

She swallowed hard, her breath catching in her throat. He was right.

She should run. She should push him away, call for help, tear herself from his grasp.

But she didn't.

Because some dark, unspoken part of her knew-she had never truly escaped him at all.

The violins surged, the melody twisting into something richer, darker. The world around them blurred as he pulled her into his arms, leading her into the waltz she swore she would never dance again.

"You were meant for a world of gold," he murmured against her ear, "but fate led you here... to me."

The music swelled.

And she let him lead.