Imperial College, Auditorium.
Seven forty-five.
From the dome of the auditorium, the massive cuckoo clock poked out its mechanical bird head. With a series of chimes that sounded overly crisp, it announced that only the final fifteen minutes remained before the curtain fell on this display of vanity.
Only fifteen minutes left until the end of the party.
At some point, the music in the center of the dance floor had shifted from an impassioned waltz to a soothing slow foxtrot, more suited for social mingling.
Even the scent of expensive perfume floating in the air seemed to have grown slack, like the curtain falling on a magnificent play.
Mary Morstan stood in the shadows of a corner, like a white statue that was out of place and refused to be melted by the warm lights.
She was already on her third glass of lemonade.
Cold water droplets condensed on the wall of the glass, sliding silently down her pale knuckles like a miniature plum rain that belonged only to her.
But this insignificant coolness could not extinguish the nameless fire burning increasingly hotter in the depths of her heart.
She was angry.
Even she herself could not deny this point.
Angry at that guy's lack of trustworthiness, angry that he brushed her off with an excuse that could be poked through with a finger.
And even more angry at herself, for actually believing that excuse and standing here like a fool waiting for Christmas presents for the first time, watching helplessly as over an hour of her life was squandered meaninglessly.
"I will wait for you."
The words she had said to him in the classroom that day echoed in her mind now, every syllable carrying a sharp irony.
an indescribable disappointment, like ink dripping into clear water, slowly and stubbornly dyed the entire lake of her heart a gloomy gray.
"Tch."
Mary downed the last mouthful of lemonade in her glass, the sour taste spreading across the tip of her tongue.
The excessive acidity exploded on her taste buds, like a belated punishment regarding her expectations.
As expected, did I expect too much?
She placed the empty glass heavily onto a waiter's tray, making a crisp clink that drew a surprised sidelong glance from him.
Boring.
It was truly too boring.
This party, this gathering filled with hypocritical faces and dull conversation topics, appeared to Mary at this moment no different from a carefully arranged funeral.
She turned around, her moon-white skirt tracing a cold arc behind her, preparing to leave right then and there.
She had given him enough time.
Now, she didn't want to wait any longer.
However, the moment she took a step, Charlotte's lazy voice sounded from behind her once again:
"Leaving?" Charlotte held a glass of champagne, looking at her with curiosity.
"Otherwise?"
Mary did not look back, her voice carrying an irritability that was difficult to calm, one she hadn't even noticed herself.
"Stay here and admire Mr. Roy's clumsy social performance?"
"Wait another five minutes," Charlotte's voice remained flat. "He will come."
"What deduction is this based on this time?" Mary turned around, a hint of mockery in her tone.
"None." Charlotte shook her head frankly.
"Pure intuition. Or perhaps a baseless fantasy born of boredom."
She swirled the champagne glass in her hand, her grey-blue eyes looking through the golden liquid toward the center of the dance floor.
"But aren't you truly curious whether Russell Watson will appear?
The important thing isn't whether he is late; the important thing is whether he will come."
Mary fell silent.
She had to admit that the reason she was still here was perhaps just to gamble on that last, insignificant sliver of possibility.
So, she stopped in her tracks and leaned back against the cold Roman pillar.
Just five minutes.
If he hasn't come in five minutes...
Mary's fingernails unconsciously dug into her palm.
Time passed minute by minute, like the final golden sands in an hourglass.
The party's opening dance; he did not come.
At that time, Mary was very calm. She told herself he was still at the orphanage; a person who kept his promises would always prioritize more important matters.
The party's social dance; he did not come.
At that time, Mary remained calm. She told herself he might have hit traffic on the way back; London's traffic was always terrible.
The party's performance dance; he did not come.
At that time, Mary began to feel a bit irritable. She wondered if that guy had just spoken casually, while she had taken it for real.
And now, the party's final dance was about to begin.
The melodious slow foxtrot slowly entered its finale. The orchestra conductor had already raised his baton, preparing to play the final rest note.
He still hadn't come.
.....
He won't come anymore.
I won't wait anymore.
Just as this thought arose—
The heavy, carved oak door of the auditorium was slowly pushed open from the outside with a creak.
Bang.
The student responsible for reception at the door seemed a bit impatient and wanted to close the door again.
But a hand wearing a black leather glove pressed against the door panel a step ahead, stopping it from closing.
Immediately after, a figure walked in unhurriedly, moving against the deep night outside the door.
The light of the entire auditorium seemed to be drawn to him at that moment. Countless gazes—curious, astonished, or disdainful—shot toward him in unison.
The newcomer wore the most ordinary black casual suit, without a tie. He looked somewhat nondescript, completely out of place in this world of fine clothes and fragrances.
His hair seemed a bit messy from running, with a few strands of black hair hanging unruly over his forehead, and his breathing carried a slight panting that hadn't yet settled.
There was no expression on his face, but those black eyes shone startlingly bright under the dazzling lights.
It was like two points of silent sparks had been ignited.
He stood there just like that, incompatible with the entire perfume-scented, jewel-adorned auditorium, like a reckless outsider who had intruded into high society.
—Russell Watson.
Timmy Roy's face darkened instantly. He put down his wine glass and took a step, preparing to go up and question this uninvited hillbilly.
Charlotte, on the other hand, raised her eyebrows, the corners of her mouth curling into a faint smile as she downed the last mouthful of champagne in her glass.
And Mary, she just stood quietly in place, looking at that figure.
Watching him cross through the crowd, ignoring everyone's gazes, walking straight toward where she was.
His steps were steady, but with every step he took closer, her heartbeat would quicken for an instant.
At this moment, the surrounding noise, music, and discussions were infinitely pulled away, losing focus until they turned into blurred background noise.
In Mary's world, only that figure approaching her remained, along with his shadow, elongated and swaying behind him.
Russell stopped in front of her. There was only a distance of three steps between them.
A social distance that was both safe and dangerous.
He was panting slightly, his forehead even coated with a thin layer of sweat from running, forming a sharp contrast with the surrounding noble children with their exquisite makeup.
"Sorry," he spoke. His voice sounded a bit hoarse due to his rapid breathing, yet it was exceptionally clear.
"I'm late."
Mary did not speak. She just looked at him, those azure eyes that had been frozen for so long now melting little by little.
The nameless fire that had burned in the bottom of her heart all night, that indescribable disappointment and irritability, instantly vanished like smoke before this simple apology of his.
"I thought," she spoke slowly, "you wouldn't come."
"I said I would try my best."
Russell's voice had calmed down. He looked at Mary, a somewhat helpless, apologetic smile appearing on his face.
"Something came up on the way, got delayed, and I had to change clothes and whatnot..."
The music, at this precise moment, played its final note and returned to silence.
Inside the auditorium, everyone stopped their dance steps, their gazes coincidentally focusing on this man and woman in the corner.
In the absolute silence, under everyone's watchful eyes, Russell bowed slightly toward Mary and extended his right hand.
A standard, impeccable invitation to dance.
"Anyway, Miss Morstan," his voice wasn't loud, but it echoed clearly in the silent auditorium.
"At the very end of the end, would you be willing to dance with me?"
Mary quietly watched that extended hand, her gaze moving slowly upward until it stopped on Russell's face.
Then, she asked the same question as that day.
"Is this a question, or an invitation?"
And so, she received an answer completely different from that day.
He said:
"It is an invitation."
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