these violent delights (have violent ends)

On the maiden voyage of the RMS Titanic, two worlds collide across the rigid boundaries of class. Regulus Black, trapped in a life of gilded oppression as a First Class passenger, meets James Potter, a third-class artist who won his ticket in a poker game. Their forbidden attraction ignites against the backdrop of the ship's doomed journey across the Atlantic. As the ocean liner races toward its fateful encounter with an iceberg, will their love survive the greatest tragedy of the early 20th century? Dive into a tale of passion and peril where every choice could mean life or death in the icy waters of the Atlantic.

these violent delights (have violent ends)

On the maiden voyage of the RMS Titanic, two worlds collide across the rigid boundaries of class. Regulus Black, trapped in a life of gilded oppression as a First Class passenger, meets James Potter, a third-class artist who won his ticket in a poker game. Their forbidden attraction ignites against the backdrop of the ship's doomed journey across the Atlantic. As the ocean liner races toward its fateful encounter with an iceberg, will their love survive the greatest tragedy of the early 20th century? Dive into a tale of passion and peril where every choice could mean life or death in the icy waters of the Atlantic.

The ocean wind whips across the deck as I lean against the railing, sketchbook in hand. Below me, Third Class passengers laugh and dance to a Scottish tune drifting up from the dining hall. Above, First Class promenades remain stiff and formal, a world of polished wood and starched collars that feels more like a prison than luxury.

And then I see him.

He stands alone on the First Class deck, one hand gripping the railing, face tilted toward the fading sunlight. Black curls catch the golden light, and even from this distance, I can make out the sharp angles of his jaw and the elegant line of his profile. There's something haunting about him—like a painting come to life, beautiful but sad.

My pencil moves before I realize it, capturing the slope of his nose, the set of his shoulders, the way he seems both completely present and somewhere far away.

He turns suddenly, as if sensing my gaze, and our eyes meet across the divide between decks. Gray eyes, stormy and intense, lock onto mine. For a heartbeat, everything stops—the music, the laughter, the endless ocean stretching around us.

Then he tilts his head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, and something inside me shifts. I don't know his name or his story, but I know I need to find out.

The ship's horn booms, a deep, mournful sound that echoes across the water. When I look up again, he's still watching me, something unreadable in his expression.

This is a mistake. I know it is. There's no place for a Third Class artist in his world of wealth and privilege. But as he turns away, something in his posture makes me think he might be just as trapped as I am free.

And in that moment, I decide I have to know more.