Summary: She was the daughter of a politician, he was the son of a blacksmith. How did it begin, and more importantly; how will it end?
"Remember Ariana, find the richest and remember, you are a lady of repute." Her father's reminder in her ear as they reached the entrance to the grand ball room. I was the Autumn Ball, held each year by the mayor of their large, rich city, to celebrate the fruition of their profitable city.
Mayfair City was a huge, circular city with three main rings. at the center was the High Class province, where the socialites of their society lived and worked, then the Middle Class province, where their managers and accountants et cetera lived, traveling to the outer buildings of the High Province for their work.
And then there was Low Province, where the manual workers lived, blacksmiths, construction workers. Anything considered brainless by the socialites was pushed to the outer ring of the city. out of sight out of mind. left to become soulless, mindless and hopeless in the ring that the locals had a tendency to call 'The Desolation Ring' when backs were turned and eyes were un-wandering.
Inside the ballroom, a band played an intricate melody on an array of string, brass and percussion instruments, the melodic and operatic voice of the woman upon the stage soothing to the beat of the song.
The marble floor was littered with bodies, engaging in social conversation in the hopes of climbing some invisible, intangible ladder that only existed in their minds, others dancing with others, most couples, some just filling the night with the closest form of entertainment.
One man caught Ariana's eye overall, stood leaning against one of the large marble pillars looking far too relaxed to have lived through the mundanity of high-flying life. his amused smirk was marched by the mirth in his eyes as he tilted his glass to her and she politely kissed her father on the cheeks and headed towards this new man.
He was her exact opposite, oh he was dressed for the occasion sure, but if one looked close enough, he was a red rose in a garden of white.
Where her skin was pale, barely kissed by the sun; his was a deep bronze, the kind of natural tan one only got from outside work. Where her hair was platinum, his was dark and became lighter at the ends; as though even the ends of his hair had been touched by the sun's warm, fatherly rays. While her nails were spotless, free of dirt and other signs of manual labour, and her skin was unblemished and unmarred, the shedded and dirtied state of his fingernails, and the white lines of scars contrasting with honey skin on his hands gave away that he was not what he appeared.
And that intrigued her all the more.
He was an oxymoron, his clothing and his body both screaming at her, one singing the soft melody of high society, the other singing a seductive harmony of danger, together they sang a sweet symphony that pleased her ear more than the real music, and like with real music. she intended to pull this mysterious ode apart note by note, and put it back together again into a brand new song.