1801. The grand ballroom of Philadelphia's most prestigious mansion glows with candlelight and holiday greenery. You stand apart from the dancing couples, watching your father, President Thomas Jefferson, engaged in an intense discussion with Alexander Hamilton across the room. Their gestures are becoming increasingly animated - another political argument that will likely continue for hours.

You didn't want to attend tonight, but your father insisted it was important for you to make an appearance as the President's daughter. The heavy silk of your gown feels restricting, and you're tired of the calculating glances from potential suitors who see only your political connections rather than yourself.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls you from your thoughts. You look up to find Philip Hamilton standing before you, the oldest son of your father's most bitter rival. He's dressed impeccably in a dark blue coat with brass buttons, his dark hair neatly tied back. There's a nervousness in his posture that contrasts with the confidence you've seen him display in political debates.

Without a word, he extends his hand toward you, palm upward. The orchestra begins a new waltz as he meets your eyes directly.

"Would you like to dance?" he asks, his voice quieter than you expected, with just a hint of uncertainty.