Page 12 of Julia.

As we arrive at the estate where the ball is being held, my heart sinks at the sight of the grand stairs leading to the front entrance. With my car window lowered to get some fresh air, I can hear the music and laughter from afar. Everyone moves around like a fish in the ocean, knowing exactly what to say or do, except me who can’t help but feel awkward about the whole ordeal. But Mom is determined to show me off to society—maybe as a little revenge for having spent the whole summer away from her—and make me one of them, so I’ll just have to put on a brave face and follow her lead.

It’s dark now, but the outdoors are lit up by antique gas light fixtures lining the driveway and walkway up to the main entrance. Our driver lets us out right at the front, while a valet opens the door for us. I take a steadying breath, looking over at my mother, copying the way she holds herself so I won’t look completely ridiculous here. I’ve done these sorts of events before, but despite what everyone tells me, it fails to get any easier. It’s all just pomp and circumstance to me.

Inside, the ballroom is stunning, with crystal chandeliers illuminating the room and golden accents adorning the walls. The sound of a live orchestra fills the air, and it’s impossible not to feel a sense of awe as I look around the room, no matter how cynical I’m feeling inside. The guests are all dressed in their finest attire, with men in sharp suits and women in flowing gowns, and Mother seems to hold the attention of them all.

“They’re looking at you,” she whispers, pulling me closer as we stroll. “I made a big deal about bringing you, so it’s been a source of anticipation to see my reclusive daughter, who just happens to be one of the most eligible bachelorettes here, too.”

“How on earth did you think that having people look at me would make me anything but uncomfortable?” I hiss, but Mom ignores me, greeting her friends and acquaintances like tonight is the highlight of the year for her. It’s certainly not, but she puts on a good show, I have to admit.

My mother leads me toward the DeVries family, the first guests we see. I force a smile and exchange pleasantries with them, trying my best to make conversation, but my mind wanders, and I can’t help asking myself why I even accepted to come here. I should be studying, not wasting my time at these frivolous events. Mom, on the other hand, is ecstatic. She’s always been obsessed with these type of events and fits perfectly in. I often feel like I’m just a pawn in her game of social scheming.

After the DeVries, I meet a few young men that Mom insists I speak to, smiling on cue and laughing politely at their jokes. One, a redhead named Tom, even goes as far as to kiss my hand, which makes me shudder unconsciously. I see my mother frown, watching me out of the corner of her eye as she speaks to others, but I refuse to feel apologetic.

Tom seems to be filled with unwavering bravery as he straightens his shoulders, and, looking me in the eye, proudly asks, “Would you honor me with a dance, Miss Julia?”

Oh gosh! Alarm bells ring in my head at the awful request. The last thing I want is to be dancing with a total stranger.

“Um, I…” I glance around, trying to find a plausible excuse to decline without upsetting the young man. “Maybe later. I’ve got to go to the restroom.” And with that, I turn on my heels and disappear among the crowd.

I might have excused myself to go to the restroom, but in reality, I’m just looking for any place where I can be alone for even just a moment. The ballroom and adjoining areas are all packed full of guests, and it’s impossible to move around without being noticed.

I stop in front of a gold-framed mirror I find in a quieter hallway and observe myself briefly—my honey-colored hair is loose and falls in soft waves down my back, framing my glowing skin, and I’m wearing the silk dress with intricate lace detailing that Mom had chosen for me. The dress hugs my curves in all the right places, and I feel elegant and sophisticated. Yet, despite how stunning I look, I can't shake the feeling of unease that has been plaguing me since I arrived. After all, I know no one here and the thought of having to stay and dance with Tom—or anyone, really—isn’t helping.

I try to run outside back to the car, but the crowds of guests make it impossible. I feel trapped and suffocated by the loud chatter and forced smiles. I get back inside, hastening my pace as I search for a quieter part of the house. I try to open a few doors, only to find them either locked or just as busy. I continue walking down the hallway, turning left, and getting farther and farther away from the ball. Finally, another door comes to view, and this time, as I twist the handle, it opens with ease. I smile in victory and step in. As I take in my surroundings, the only place I can find solace in seems to be an antique library. I close the door behind me and start roaming around, grateful for the peace and quiet. My eyes wander around the impressive floor to ceiling built-in bookshelves that surround me. A spiral staircase giving to a second floor for more books stands at the end of the room, and a majestic Mahogany desk lies on my right with a lamp bathing the room in a soft orange glow. Without thinking twice, I take off my heels, which I hate wearing, and let my feet walk over the Persian rug in the direction of the closest shelves. I start exploring them, my attention drawn to a row of leather-bound books with golden, embossed letters, to which I run my fingers over the spines. I feel like breathing again in this vintage atmosphere. It’s peaceful here, away from the noise and crowds of the party outside. The perfect refuge to stay in until Mom is ready to leave.

“Isn’t the party to your liking?”

But my solitude is short lived as I flinch at the intrusive voice coming from behind me. My mouth gasps open as I spin around, startled, and find myself face-to-face with a tall, fit man across the room, dressed casually in jeans and a gray crewneck sweater, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His piercing brown eyes lock onto mine, and I can’t seem to look away.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He flashes a warm smile, and I feel my heart skip a beat.

“I don’t think so, no.” I can hear the amusement in his tone, and I’m not sure what to make out of it. “You are?”

I clear my throat, trying to steady my nerves. “Julia,” I reply, trying to sound confident, despite being literally caught in a room I have no business to be in.

We stand there for a moment, looking at each other. Then, in silence, the mysterious man starts moving around the room, picking up books and placing them back on their shelves.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer, unsure what to do or say next. “I don't do parties. Mom forced me to come.”

He nods sympathetically as he puts another book back in its place. A dark-brown lock of hair falls on his forehead causing him to run his fingers up to brush it aside. I can’t help but smile at the gesture, finding it oddly enticing.

“Oh, I'm sorry about that.” His eyes are fixed on the shelves, before falling back on me. “I assume you’d prefer to hide in here until the party is over?”

Not sure if he’s being sarcastic or not, but I nod in agreement, following him as he moves to another section of the room. “I do. In fact, it’s the first room I entered and, um, it was empty.” Before I can explain myself any further, I stop mid-way and notice something odd. “Wait—why aren’t you dressed up? Aren’t you a guest?”

“Not really…” he trails off, fixing me with a stare and a side smile.

It’s impossible not to notice how at ease he is in this room, as if it’s his own personal sanctuary.

My jaw drops as the answer hits me and I do my best not to appear too embarrassed. “Oh gosh! I’m so sorry, is this your house?”

“My dad’s,” he answers casually. “But I suppose I’ll inherit it one day.”

I feel myself blushing as I apologize again, trailing behind him as he walks to another shelf. “Mom didn’t tell me where we were going…”

He chuckles softly, and I notice how his laughter seems to fill the room. “Well, you are at the Van den Bosch estate…” His gaze holds mine as he takes a step closer to me—close enough that I can smell his cologne. Spice and sandalwood. The air circulating around us intensifies and my heartbeat starts pounding so hard inside my chest that I wonder if he can hear it. His closeness doesn’t leave me indifferent, and I think I’m doing a terrible job at pretending otherwise. “I’m Sebastian, the oldest of the bunch, but you may just call me Seb.”

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