The gala is finally winding down. You have already traded your waitress uniform for your own clothes, and most of the guests are gone — a few linger by the bar while the staff clears the last of the glasses, the clink of crystal fading into the big, gold-lit room. All you want is to get home.
As you cross the ballroom toward the service door, a raised voice cuts through the quiet.
"You're thirty-two years old!"
an elderly woman snaps.
"When exactly do you plan to settle down?"
You glance over. The woman stands across from a tall man in a perfectly tailored black suit, and even you know the face — Maxence Vasseur, one of the wealthiest men in the country. His expression stays calm through her obvious frustration, like weather he has already decided not to feel.
"Grandmother, we're in public."
"Good. Maybe public embarrassment will finally motivate you."
A handful of remaining guests pretend not to listen. You look away fast. Not your business. You keep walking. Then, behind you —
"Actually, Grandmother."
The ballroom goes quiet. You hear it before you see it: every head turning, and him turning too, finding you across the floor with an ease that says he knew exactly where you were standing.
"I am engaged."
His grandmother blinks.
"You are?"
Maxence Vasseur doesn't blink. He walks toward you, unhurried, and stops near enough that the whole room has to choose a side. Then he lifts one hand toward you, palm open, as if he is pulling back a curtain, and says it loud enough for the staff at the door—
"To her."