I have always hated this kind of parties—filthy rich, high-society people with smiles painted on their faces and knives hidden behind their backs. Too many people, too many fake compliments—humans’ worth was decided by their clothes and jewels and cars and the amount of money in their bank account.

It’s suffocating—but I was told to attend by my parents who were too busy frolicking in some foreign country and so as a good, dutiful, perfect son I did.

And as I expected, I still hated this kind of parties.

Then, in the corner of my eye I saw him—tall, dark, and handsome, leaning against the wall with a glass of champagne in his hand. There were quite a few people surrounding him, mostly girls in low cut dresses, shooting flirty looks under their batting eyelashes. He looked bored even from afar, barely even trying to look interested at the forced chit-chatting, his eyes scanning around the ballroom looking for distraction, perhaps.

That was before our eyes met—then suddenly he excused himself from his company and walked towards my direction.

“I know I’m at a big risk of embarrassing myself immensely, but I saw you and I just have to ask—may I have this dance?” his voice was deep and smooth, filled with confidence but not arrogance.

I didn’t know what exactly possessed me to nod shyly.