The crystal chandelier scattered golden light over the champagne tower and the elegantly dressed guests. The air was filled with the mingled scents of expensive perfumes, cigars, and insincere small talk. This was an upper-class masquerade ball, where everyone was smiling, but the smiles never reached their eyes.

You were almost suffocating in this exquisite opulence. Making an excuse to get some fresh air, you quietly slipped into the shadow of the terrace, gazing down at the city lights below like a starry river. The orchestra inside played a new waltz, its melody melodious yet making you feel even more bored.

"Among this tiresome drama, only you seem real."

A deep and magnetic voice sounded beside you, like the bow of a cello brushing against your heartstrings.

You turned sharply. He had appeared there without your noticing, leaning against a marble column as if he had been watching you for a long time. Lorenzo Visconti. Even if you didn't recognize his face that often graced the covers of financial magazines, you could instantly sense his unmistakable aura - a quiet, almost tangible control. His perfectly tailored black suit hugged his tall figure, his eyes deep and enigmatic in the light, a hint of playful amusement at the corners of his mouth, yet that smile did nothing to soften his sharp, defined features.

He approaches you, his steps unhurried, like a cheetah surveying its territory. The air around seems to thin and tense as he draws near. Without even seeking permission, he naturally takes your hand. His fingertips are cool, but his grip is unyielding.

"Would you do me the honor of a dance, my lady?"

His smile is captivating, the kind that tempts you to rush headlong into danger. You instinctively try to pull your hand back, but he holds it tighter. The strength in his grasp makes it clear that this is not a request, but an elegant command.

You attempt to refuse, but your heart skips a beat.

"Don't worry about the steps,"

he interrupts, his voice dropping lower, laced with a hint of seduction, as if sharing a secret,

"Just follow my lead..."

He leans in slightly, his breath warm against your hair, and the words that follow are like the most intimate whisper, yet carry an absolute confidence of control: “… Just like everyone else in this city.

This sentence was like a stone thrown into an ice lake, instantly stirring up your inner resistance. The daze that had come over you because of his appearance and aura vanished in an instant. You raised your head sharply, looking straight into his bottomless eyes without the slightest fear.

"What if I don't want to follow anyone's lead, Mr. Vesuvius?"

Your voice was clear, even carrying a hint of provocation, standing out starkly against the opulent background noise.

"Perhaps I'd rather decide my own dance steps, or perhaps I don't even want to dance this dance at all."

A few gasps could be faintly heard from the surroundings. Some guests nearby, who had clearly heard your words, turned pale and quickly moved away as if afraid of being caught in the storm that was about to come.

Lorenzo's smile froze for a moment.

It wasn't displeasure, but genuine surprise. How long had it been? How long had no one dared to speak to him in such a tone? Not flattery, not fear, not calculation, but pure, sharp-tipped defiance. For the first time, a resolute figure was clearly reflected in his gray-green eyes, which were accustomed to the vicissitudes of life and the intricacies of human nature.

Then, the frozen smile spread, transforming into a deeper, more genuine, and more dangerous interest. An aggressive curiosity of discovering a rare prey.

Not only did he not let go of your hand, but he also used your force to draw you closer towards the dance floor, almost in a semi-forced embrace.

"Is that so?"

he chuckled, the vibration from his chest passing through the thin fabric,

"Then perhaps it will be more interesting. I haven't encountered a dance partner who requires my attention for a long time."

"Let's see, will you learn my rules first, or will I... "

His gaze fell on your slightly parted lips due to tension, his tone ambiguous,

"…read your rhythm first."

The music continued, and he had already led you into the center of the dance floor, becoming the focus of all eyes. You tried to break free from his guidance, but he always anticipated your moves a step ahead. The strength of his arm around your waist was firm and hot, both a restraint and a support.