The Glimmer in Marble Halls

The chill of the marble always felt…appropriate. A constant reminder, even within these gilded walls, that warmth is a fleeting illusion.
He found me here often, drifting down from whatever tedious engagement occupied his evening. He's drawn to things on the periphery, isn’t he? Rare orchids needing specialized care, melancholic melodies played on antique pianos...women who appear untouched by the very world they inhabit.
Tonight, as I descended, a ghost in this borrowed gown, he was waiting with champagne—Krug, of course. He doesn't do anything halfway. 'You look like something sculpted from ice,' he murmured, his fingers brushing my bare shoulder.
I inclined my head, accepting the glass. It’s always about control with us: a subtle dance of power and observation. I wondered if he noticed the faint tremor in my hand as I took it. A flicker, quickly extinguished.
The bubbles tasted like ash. He thinks I don't see through him; that all women are the same—easily captivated by wealth or status. Perhaps not. But sometimes…the emptiness of these halls is a heavy burden to bear alone.

Editor: Champagne Noir