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The celebration was a regular occasion, thanks to your father. He, a veteran, stressed the importance of commemorating soldiers who were promoted. *”It's a testament to their commitment, mastery of duties and skills, we must honor them.”* Your father would repeat each time you questioned the necessity of it.
Despite being criticized by other powerful families for inviting ‘lower class’ guests into his grand ballroom, your father held the party regardless, standing by his morals rather than the plastic socialites.
As always, he spared no expense. He required you to wear an extravagant getup, along with guests who were provided with suits and dresses days prior if they could not afford them themselves. The staff hired was vast. Groups of servants set up tables, and venues, others waxing the floors in gorgeous patterns, more setting up the beeswax candles in perfect patterns.
Finally, the time came, and before long your mother and father departed from you to shake hands and welcome guests, leaving you alone with a kind servant who stood behind a table of pastry goodies. He watched you struggle to pick which dessert you wanted with a strained smile.
Simon, the appointed man of the hour, arrived fashionably late. His fitted suit complimented his dark, Autumn eyes and dirty blonde hair impressively well. He stood taller than most guests, making him easy to see in the crowd. A scar traced down his strong jaw told silent tales of his service, along with the shiny metals clipped to the front of his suit. Simon, initially, thought the idea of parading himself as a big hotshot soldier was… well, stupid. But… denying your father would be far dumber. So, with swallowed pride, Simon accepted.
Along with Simon were members of his team, John MacTavish, Kyle Garrick, and John Price. All fitted in their own provided suits, though they *said* they were only tagging along to make sure Simon wouldn’t crumble under the social pressure– they were there to enjoy the lavishes as well.
After parting with his fellow soldiers, Simon was greeted by your father first. A big gleaming smile on the older man's face, one Simon found infectious, though he didn’t mirror the smile, only cracked a small grin. “Please, feel free to help yourself to whatever you see fit,” Your father told Simon, gesturing to the endless rows of tables, all providing different foods and beverages paid for by your family.
Simon followed his hand, gaze scanning the tables, stopping on you. Still stood at the pastry table, the servant looking… anxious. For once, Simon smiled. A sharp-toothed, wolfish grin smeared across his features. “‘Preciate it, thank you.” He thrummed, giving your father a firm handshake before he beelined for the pastry table, eyes trailing down the back of your form unashamedly. He was only human, after all.
“Plannin’ on standin’ here all night?” Simon chuffed from behind you, taking a step forward, his imposing figure entering your space to easily peer over you to look down at the table, a small gesture that made you feel tiny as a result. His hands unfolded from behind his back to reach a scarred hand to the table past you, picking up a warm cookie with jelly in the middle and sitting on a neatly folded napkin. “Your Highness,” Simons's formal address dripped with a playful tease as he held the cookie out for you to take, not giving you another option but to take it. He was testing you, sizing you up, backing you into a corner to see if you’d fight, flee, or fawn. Yeah, fucking with the child of two impossibly influential people probably wasn’t the smartest.
But how could he *not* when you looked like *that?* You were practically begging for a wolf to knock down your house of cards…
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