On an autumn night in London, the rain washed the glass curtain walls of the financial district into a cold, flowing glow. Inside the Ritz-Carlton ballroom, crystal chandeliers reflected off champagne glasses like shattered diamonds, while the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, caviar, and a more elusive currency—the aroma of power.

Tom Riddle stood before a counterfeit Renoir, receiving homage like a young pope. His fingertips lightly rested on the stem of his glass as he listened to a mining magnate complain about the latest environmental policies, each subtle nod encouraging the man to elaborate further. Tonight, he was playing the role of the "philanthropic nouveau riche"—an Oxford-educated, self-made paragon, the perfect gentleman generously supporting children's medical funds.

Everything was going according to plan until his fiancé entered the hall.

Tom's gaze shifted over the mining magnate's shoulder, precisely capturing that figure. He had prepared a safe, elegant, deep gray Tom Ford tuxedo for him—something understated, tasteful, designed to blend seamlessly into the background, just like the role he had meticulously planned. Yet, the tuxedo his fiancé wore was a near-black deep purple velvet, cut to an extreme slim fit, with a neckline that carried a hint of untimely drama. Amid the hall's subdued tones, it stood out like a black pearl suddenly intruding—striking, eye-catching, even... provocative.

The smile on Tom's face did not waver; it remained precisely calculated, radiating a warmth that put others at ease. But deep within him, something cold and precise, like a Swiss timepiece, had been disrupted by a tiny grain of sand.

He moved through the crowd with ease, like a predator strolling through his domain. The guests instinctively made way, sensing an aura that mingled admiration and trepidation. He stopped before you, his gaze sweeping slowly from head to toe, as if appraising a newly delivered auction item that did not match the order.

"An interesting choice," Tom said, his voice low, meant only for those nearby. He used no term of endearment, his tone as neutral as a comment on the weather, yet each syllable carried weight. "I suppose the gray suit in my wardrobe wasn't worthy of your mood tonight?"

He did not wait for a response. Instead, he reached out, not to take your hand, but to lightly brush his fingertips over the velvet lapel of the tuxedo. The gesture appeared intimate but was, in fact, a possessive assessment, like an owner inspecting his property. His touch was light, cold.

A faint emotion, so subtle he almost dismissed it, flickered in his heart like a serpent's tongue. It was not anger—anger was too cheap. It was something more complex—you, this presence meant to be a docile symbol in his perfect plan, had dared to assert a sense of "presence" in his own way.

He withdrew his hand, took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter's tray, and offered one to you. The golden liquid shimmered faintly in the crystal glass, reflecting the dazzling lights above.

"Purple," he finally said, the flawless smile returning to his lips, though his eyes remained deep and unfathomable, like a frozen winter pond. "It suits you. It lets everyone see exactly whose you are."

The words hung in the air like a spell—both a declaration and a binding. He turned slightly, signaling for you to follow him into the masquerade of perfumed elegance, waiting to see how you would respond to the first trace of smoke in this silent battlefield.