Imperial College London auditorium. 7:45 p.m.
The massive cuckoo clock atop the dome stuck its mechanical head out, its chimes signaling there were only fifteen minutes left to the end of this grand event.
The music transitioned from lively waltz to a more social, subdued pace. Even the expensive perfumes in the air seemed melancholy, as if the grand drama was winding down.
Mary Morstan stood, an odd white sculpture refusing to melt into the warmth, lingering in the shadows. She was on her third glass of lemonade—the condensation beads slid over her fingers like a private monsoon, but the tiny chill couldn't calm the brighter, nameless fire burning in her heart.
She was angry.
She could not deny it—angry at the man who'd broken his promise, at letting herself be fobbed off with flimsy excuses, at herself for waiting foolishly and wasting more than an hour of her life on hope more bitter than any punishment.
"I'll wait for you." Her words in that classroom echoed now, every syllable sharp and biting.
Disappointment, like ink dripping into clear water, slowly and stubbornly dyed her heart gray.
"Tch." Mary drained the last drop of lemonade, the sourness stinging her tongue like delayed punishment for too much hope. Perhaps her expectations had simply been too high.
She set her glass down on a passing waiter's tray with a sharp clink that startled him.
Boring. Utterly boring. The hypocrisy and shallow gossip at this gathering felt no different from a meticulously planned funeral.
Mary turned to leave, her moonlit dress tracing a cold arc. She'd given him long enough—there was no reason to wait any longer.
But as she took her first step, Charlotte's offhand voice called from behind.
"Leaving already?" Charlotte held her champagne glass and watched with curious amusement.
"What else is there to do?" Mary snapped, not realizing her own growing agitation. "Stay here and enjoy Mr. Roy's awkward social performance?"
"Wait five more minutes," Charlotte replied calmly, "He'll come."
"Oh?" Mary turned back with a wry smile. "And what's your deduction this time?"
Charlotte shook her head. "No deduction. Just a hunch—possibly baseless, born of boredom." She swirled her glass, her gray-blue gaze scanning the dance floor through golden bubbles. "But honestly, aren't you curious whether Russell Watson will show?"
Not whether he'd be late—but whether he'd come at all.
Mary fell silent, forced to admit she remained only to gamble on that last, trivial chance.
So she waited, leaning against a cold Roman pillar. Just five minutes. If he wasn't here by then...
Her fingernails dug unconsciously into her palm as time trickled away like the final grains in an hourglass.
He hadn't come to the opening dance. Mary told herself he must have had more important things. He'd missed the social. Maybe stuck in traffic—London's traffic was always a mess. He'd missed the showcase performance. Now she was just beginning to feel a little crushed—had she taken his words too seriously after all?
And now, just as the conductor raised his baton for the final, slow waltz—he still hadn't come.
He never would.
She could wait no longer.
In that very moment—the grand oak doors of the auditorium creaked open from outside.
Bang.
The student at the entrance looked annoyed, about to close the door again.
But a black-gloved hand shot out first, blocking the door from shutting. A figure appeared, silhouetted against the deep night outside, and walked in.
Suddenly all the lights seemed to draw toward him; a thousand emotions—curiosity, surprise, even disdain—fixed on this solitary figure.
He wore a plain black suit, no tie, and in a roomful of elegant guests seemed out of place. His hair, tousled from running, fell over his forehead, and his breath was hurried.
His face was unreadable, but under the bright lights, his black eyes shone like two ignited sparks.
An outsider, standing alone amidst the upper crust, like a trespasser in high society.
Russell Watson.
Timmy Roy's face darkened. Setting down his glass, he strode over to confront this uninvited country bumpkin.
Charlotte raised an eyebrow and smiled faintly, draining the last drops from her champagne flute.
Mary simply stood and watched.
Russell walked through the crowd, ignoring every gaze, heading straight for her. Her heartbeat grew faster with each step.
For a split second, the world blurred and faded. In Mary's sight, only the approaching figure and his trailing shadow remained.
He stopped just three paces away—close enough for safety, yet still dangerous. The margin of society.
Still catching his breath, sweat glistened on his brow—utterly unlike the meticulously groomed gentlemen all around.
"Sorry," he said. His voice was breathless but more earnest than ever. "I'm late."
Mary said nothing, just watching—as the iciness in her blue eyes slowly melted away.
All the anger and disappointment burning inside her for hours vanished in an instant with his simple apology.
"I thought you wouldn't come," she whispered. "Even though you said you'd do your best."
Russell's gaze softened, with a helpless, apologetic smile. "Something came up. I was delayed... and I needed to change, and..."
At that moment, the music gave its final notes and fell silent. The entire hall turned to look at the couple in the corner.
In absolute silence, as every eye in the room watched, Russell bowed his head, extending his right hand.
A standard, perfect invitation to dance.
"To put it simply, Miss Morstan—" his voice was not loud, but it resounded clearly in the silent hall,
"May I have this last dance with you?"
Mary stared at the offered hand for a long, quiet moment, then slowly raised her eyes to his face.
And she asked the same question as that day.
"Is this a question—or an invitation?"
But this time, the answer was different.
"It's an invitation."
PS: Miss Moriarty is getting rizz.