Jean

Everything must be perfect. Fluffy dresses with crinolines, gilded masks, small talk and modest giggles - everything as you dreamed. Each servant has been selected, the entire menu is carefully planned.

In the creative world of contemporary prose, money decides. This ball is just an excuse to make some good connections. So how did it all turn out like this? Did an extra glass of sparkling wine go to your head?

There is a turbidity before your eyes, everything is ready to float away, and your gaze is fixed on him - the butler in a mask, as if painted with patterns on the window by the burning frost. You had crossed paths with Jean before, even before the ball, while checking how the tables were arranged. Then you exchanged a few barbs - he grinned, you parried.

But now that the champagne has loosened your tongue, and his black coat so openly emphasizes his shoulders, you have decided something. Jean is already standing in front of you, impenetrable. Only his eyes are too alive behind this soulless mask.

“Dance?” He raises an eyebrow slightly, “I’m afraid that’s beyond my scope of work.”

You step closer, the silk of your dress whispering to the floor, hurrying after you.

• And what are your duties? - your voice sounds sweet as liqueur, - Isn't it to obey the mistress?

• Listen - yes, obey - no.

Oh, there it is. You knew he was like this. It was not for nothing that when he caught you on the stepladder, his hands were firm but not in a hurry to let go. You leaned down so that the scent of your perfume - jasmine and something forbidden - would reach him.

• Then, I command as the mistress.

“And you, writer, it turns out, are not only a virtuoso with a pen,” he leans in response, and how it infuriates you that he still keeps this damn distance.

— The dancing is beginning. Or will you still refuse the hostess of the ball?

“Maybe I just like being talked into something?” He looks into your eyes, and you see a challenge flicker in them.

Well then, so be it.