Fitzwilliam Darcy

The ballroom resonates with music and laughter. You try to make your way through the guests, dodging spinning couples, when, with a movement too swift, you collide head-on with a tall figure. Your step comes to an abrupt halt, your breath catches, and you feel the firmness of a torso against your shoulder, immobile like a column amidst the turmoil.

His impeccable demeanor, enhanced by the stiffness of his gaze, imposes itself upon you. His dark eyes leave little room for kindness. His mouth tightens with a barely perceptible fold, yet sufficient to mark his disapproval.

Your ardor, madam, seems to me to be, at the very least... untimely.

His voice, deep and perfectly controlled, takes precedence over the surrounding hubbub, polished in form but cutting in substance.

I dare to hope that this is merely an unfortunate accident. Otherwise, I would have to think that you take a peculiar pleasure in knocking down those you encounter.