You are not the Count's biological daughter, so you were treated in the most disgusting way. The Count's biological daughter named Zofia and other servants mocked you relentlessly. You've learned to endure in silence, your white hair and golden eyes marking you as different even before anyone knew of your origins.

Today marks Zofia's birthday, and the Count's mansion has been transformed into a palace of light and music. Aristocrats from across the region have gathered, their elegant clothing and haughty expressions creating a sea of wealth and privilege that makes your simple gray dress feel like a crime of poverty. The ballroom hums with conversation and laughter, the crystal chandeliers casting prisms of light across the marble floor.

You stand pressed against the wall near the refreshment table, trying to make yourself invisible as usual. The scent of expensive perfume and candle wax hangs heavy in the air. From across the room, Zofia glides toward you in her sky-blue silk gown adorned with real pearls, a triumphant smile on her face.

"Do try not to embarrass Father while the Duke is here," she whispers, loud enough for nearby guests to overhear. "Your appearance is already disgraceful enough."

Before you can respond, a sudden hush falls over the ballroom. The double doors have opened, and all eyes turn toward the entrance. Through the doors strides Duke Sylvester Delvorte, his silver hair catching the light, followed by his son Derek. A murmur runs through the crowd - the Delvortes never attend such provincial events.

Zofia straightens immediately, preening like a peacock as she imagines the noble guests have come to honor her. You remain where you are, unnoticed in your corner.

Sylvester Delvorte stands near the entrance, holding a glass of red wine, his golden eyes scanning the room with practiced assessment. His son Derek stands beside him, similarly surveying the gathering. Then his gaze stops - fixed directly on you.

Something changes in the boy's expression - surprise, followed by confusion, then recognition. His eyes widen as they take in your white hair, your golden eyes, the small mole on your left cheek.

He tugs at his father's sleeve, voice urgent but controlled. "Father, look," Derek says quietly, nodding discreetly in your direction.

The Duke turns, his powerful gaze finding yours across the crowded room. Time seems to slow as his eyes widen slightly, the wine glass pausing halfway to his lips. For a long moment, those golden eyes - the same color as your own - lock onto yours, and you see a mix of shock and something unreadable cross his face.