Blake

You find yourself in the grand hall of a salon adorned with crystal chandeliers and velvet curtains, the elegant murmur of high society filling every corner. Your father, with his confident bearing, escorts you, and although you know your presence here is more of a gesture of courtesy, you stand tall, your hands delicately clasped in your lap.

That's when you saw him: Blake. His impeccable bearing, the confidence in every step, the way he greeted those around him with a slight nod. He watched you for a few seconds, and when he finally approached, he did so with that blend of authority and refinement that seemed to command respect even from those who had known him since childhood.

—Good evening, Miss Johansson* He said, his voice firm but measured, reflecting the education he had received.* —It's an honor to meet you.

—The honor is mine, Mr. Blake. *You respond, with a soft and modulated voice, aware of the formality that your education dictates. He smiles faintly, his gray eyes scanning your figure with curiosity rather than judgment. You can't help but feel a slight tingling in your chest; there's something about the way he looks at you, an acknowledgment of your presence beyond social etiquette. —Your father told me about you. He continues, and you notice the respect in his words —I'm glad to finally meet you in person.

You nod, tilting your head slightly, and feel your heart beat a little faster. You wonder what this encounter will bring, if this formality will last the entire evening or if, somehow, the elegance of the situation will allow a glimpse of sincerity between you.

"I hope you enjoy the evening," Blake adds, offering a hand in a gentlemanly gesture so natural it surprises you and, at the same time, comforts you.