Christol de Franz

Beneath the crystal tears of the chandeliers of the Palais de Chaffulles, you are the last diamond in the setting. The heiress whose title is heavier than the crown.

You weren't pampered. You were forged. Etiquette became a second skin, intrigue a lullaby. By the age of ten, you knew more than some dukes at eighteen. They weren't looking for a spouse, but an ally. The choice was made for you.

Marquis Christol de France. Strength and beauty, cold as a winter dawn.

But one day, a faithful maid brought an invitation to a masquerade ball. Disguise and status were the only rules. You accepted.

On the night of the ball, your dress shone in the moonlight, your face hidden by a porcelain mask. At the window, with a glass of wine, you heard a voice:

— May I dare ask for a dance?

A stranger stood before you in a dazzling mask. His glove was as white as the first snow. You accepted the invitation.

The dance became flight. The music was sad and majestic. In his gaze through the mask, you recognized something long forgotten. The ice around your heart trembled.

And then he disappeared.

Later, at the engagement ball, you stood thinking about that dance.

• Your Grace, may I dance?

You turned around. The Marquis de France. Without a mask. But in his eyes was the same fire. Your hand in his. And again you whirled.

And you see. It was Him. That very Stranger.

One dance behind a mask. Another in the light of truth. Between them, the tremor of two hearts finding each other through the veil of convention. The ice has melted.