01-01-2025, 11:32 PM
Nikolai was not entirely immune to the art of dancing. He wouldn’t call himself a natural—grace had never been his strongest suit—but he was competent enough to move without embarrassment. As he took Sofia’s hand and guided her toward the music, his movements were precise, almost mechanical, more out of duty than desire. His grip was steady, his steps deliberate, but there was little warmth in the gesture. It was the dance of a man who saw such moments as obligation rather than pleasure.
When his gaze met hers, it was fleeting, polite, and detached, like the passing glance of a much older man indulging a young woman for whom he felt no real connection. The spark of interest that Sofia likely inspired in so many others failed to ignite in him. She was poised and beautiful, yes, but Nikolai viewed her through the lens of calculation, not admiration.
Their small talk drifted as predictably as the music, a series of questions and polite responses that felt more like a script than a conversation. He inquired about her interest in the party, her plans for the holidays, his tone perfectly measured, neither too curious nor entirely indifferent. She replied with practiced charm, every answer polished, every word deliberate. He mirrored her politeness but found it an effort to appear focused. The distractions gnawed at him, drawing his attention elsewhere.
As they turned with the rhythm, Nikolai’s gaze slipped past her shoulder to Noemi. His chest tightened at the sight of her, her posture subtly tense, her expression carefully schooled. Something about it unsettled him. He didn’t like the tautness in her shoulders or the way her movements seemed restrained, as if she were holding herself back.
![[Image: Myshelov-tux-resized-1.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/12/Myshelov-tux-resized-1.png)
The murmurs of conversation and the notes of the orchestra barely registered as he approached Konstantin, leaning in to speak softly. His tone was calm, measured, but carried the weight of an unspoken command. “The Ascendancy has requested that the party gather in attendance,” he said, his words clipped but polite. Myshelov stepped back, watching as the host gave a subtle nod and began the delicate work of corralling the scattered attendees. Myshelov allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction—Konstantin knew his role well—but his focus shifted almost immediately. One face, a particular one, was conspicuously absent.
Mister James, it seemed, was exploring the far reaches of the estate. The notion drew a slight frown from Myshelov, the kind of expression that barely touched his face but spoke volumes. With small time to spare, Myshelov adjusted his cuffs, his every movement deliberate, and set off himself. He moved with an unhurried authority. The far end of the estate was quiet, the sounds of the party fading into the distance as he left it behind.
His steps echoed faintly against the polished floors, each one a quiet testament to his resolve. He did not send a subordinate. Myshelov preferred to handle such matters personally when they demanded his attention. After all, a personal touch often yielded the clearest results—and when it came to Mister James, clarity was essential.
When his gaze met hers, it was fleeting, polite, and detached, like the passing glance of a much older man indulging a young woman for whom he felt no real connection. The spark of interest that Sofia likely inspired in so many others failed to ignite in him. She was poised and beautiful, yes, but Nikolai viewed her through the lens of calculation, not admiration.
Their small talk drifted as predictably as the music, a series of questions and polite responses that felt more like a script than a conversation. He inquired about her interest in the party, her plans for the holidays, his tone perfectly measured, neither too curious nor entirely indifferent. She replied with practiced charm, every answer polished, every word deliberate. He mirrored her politeness but found it an effort to appear focused. The distractions gnawed at him, drawing his attention elsewhere.
As they turned with the rhythm, Nikolai’s gaze slipped past her shoulder to Noemi. His chest tightened at the sight of her, her posture subtly tense, her expression carefully schooled. Something about it unsettled him. He didn’t like the tautness in her shoulders or the way her movements seemed restrained, as if she were holding herself back.
The murmurs of conversation and the notes of the orchestra barely registered as he approached Konstantin, leaning in to speak softly. His tone was calm, measured, but carried the weight of an unspoken command. “The Ascendancy has requested that the party gather in attendance,” he said, his words clipped but polite. Myshelov stepped back, watching as the host gave a subtle nod and began the delicate work of corralling the scattered attendees. Myshelov allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction—Konstantin knew his role well—but his focus shifted almost immediately. One face, a particular one, was conspicuously absent.
Mister James, it seemed, was exploring the far reaches of the estate. The notion drew a slight frown from Myshelov, the kind of expression that barely touched his face but spoke volumes. With small time to spare, Myshelov adjusted his cuffs, his every movement deliberate, and set off himself. He moved with an unhurried authority. The far end of the estate was quiet, the sounds of the party fading into the distance as he left it behind.
His steps echoed faintly against the polished floors, each one a quiet testament to his resolve. He did not send a subordinate. Myshelov preferred to handle such matters personally when they demanded his attention. After all, a personal touch often yielded the clearest results—and when it came to Mister James, clarity was essential.