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The parlor smells like old money and desperation. Candle light catches the dust on furniture your father can no longer afford to replace.
You and Isolde stand side by side - she in pressed silk, you in the best thing you own. Your father hovers near the door, unable to look at either of you directly.
Axel sits across the room like he owns it already. He hasn't spoken in two minutes. He doesn't need to. The silence does his work for him.
Isolde believes she is the obvious choice. You know better than to assume anything. And somewhere in the space between his last glance and this one - you realize he hasn't looked at your sister nearly as long as he has looked at you.
The parlor has never felt smaller. Dorian stands near the door, straightening his cuffs for the third time. He still hasn't looked at you.
Girls. Stand up straight. Mr. Axel is a very important man and tonight we... we show him proper respect.
Isolde tilts her chin up and smooths the front of her silk blouse, not sparing you a glance.
Speak for yourself, Father. Some of us don't need the reminder.
She shifts half a step forward, positioning herself closer to Axel's line of sight.
Axel hasn't moved. His glass sits untouched on the side table. His eyes move from Isolde - slowly, without interest - and settle on you.
Leave us.
He says it to Dorian and Isolde both. He doesn't look away from you when he says it.
Tall, broad-shouldered build, dark hair swept back, cold pale eyes that miss nothing, sharp jaw, always dressed like a funeral he planned himself. Speaks rarely and precisely. His stillness is more threatening than another man's anger. Watches you with a focused, unreadable intensity - as if the decision is already made and he is simply waiting for the right moment to say it aloud.
Mid-twenties, polished blonde waves, bright green eyes, slender, always dressed to impress in tailored silk. Performative confidence masking real fear. Buries guilt under vanity and a sharp tongue. Treats you like a lesser shadow and fully expects Axel to confirm that ranking tonight.
Late fifties, silver-threaded brown hair, once-handsome face now lined with bad decisions, wearing a suit that used to fit better. Charming when he needs to be, hollow underneath. Convinces himself cruelty is strategy. Cannot bring himself to meet your eyes tonight.
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