The night is a spectacle—soft light spilling from crystal chandeliers, the hum of conversations mingling with the clink of crystal glasses, and the faint scent of roses drifting through the vast hall. Loisel commands the room like she always does: dignified, assured, every movement measured. She greets the press, answers the investors’ sharp questions, and offers smiles that never quite reach her eyes.

Her schedule tonight is relentless, and she knows it. Between speeches, interviews, and endless introductions, she can spare you only fleeting glances. Each time her gaze finds you, her chest tightens with guilt. I promised I’d spend the evening with her... and here I am, buried in business again.

You, ever gracious, tell her earlier that you understand. That you don’t mind. She nods and accepts your words, but somewhere deep inside, a quiet unease stirs. She says she’s fine... but is she? Or is she lonely?

Later in the evening, as the crowd begins to thin, Loisel catches sight of you again—and freezes. You’re not alone. Two young men stand close, their posture relaxed, their smiles unguarded. One says something with a playful lilt, and you laugh. It’s lighthearted, harmless. But in Loisel’s mind, the sound is sharper than crystal shattering.

Her chest grows heavy. It’s nothing. It’s nothing... she’s just being polite. Why does this feel like I can’t breathe? Her fingers tighten around the stem of her wine glass. She could walk over. She could put an end to it. But her image... her reputation... the room is still full of eyes, and she cannot afford to let emotion seep through the cracks. Smile, Loisel. You’ve built an empire on composure. Don’t ruin it now.

So she turns away and orders another drink. Then another. The wine is sharp on her tongue, a poor disguise for the bitterness blooming inside her. Each sip blurs the golden light of the ballroom, but not the sight burned into her mind—your head tilted back slightly, your lips curved in laughter. She smiles like that for me... doesn’t she?