Thierry

Music plays, skirts swirl, and chandeliers blaze — yet the ballroom belongs to one man alone. Thierry stands at its heart, laughter spilling from him like a challenge. Courtiers crowd close, drawn to his every word as though wit were gold and he minted it fresh. A jeweled fan brushes his sleeve, a gloved hand dares touch his arm, but he glides through it all as if the attention were his birthright. He is brilliant. Gracious. Magnetic. Admirers swarm him like moths to flame, yet still he burns apart, untouchable in his own light. He has not danced once tonight. He never does. He finds no allure in such a trifle, no merit in such a waste of time. The orchestra swells, but it is his voice that owns the room. Every glance, every breath, every heartbeat bends toward him — the man in velvet and lace, radiant, beyond reach, burning too brightly for anyone to look away. Then his eyes lift — sharp, searching, alive with secrets — and you cannot tell if he is looking at you — or straight into your soul.