It was less the crowd that felt claustrophobic, but the suffocation of expectation and intention. The fifty different things their dance meant to different people, the waves of inevitable judgment. Maybe Ozymandias thought he made the gallant decision; his dismissiveness of her suggestion surely indicated as much. This was more his realm of expertise than hers, perhaps the subconscious reason for why she decided to follow his lead in the first place. But now the woman let out a disapproving tut, not entirely bought into her role as supporting actress.

“And do you know the difference between an actress and a prop?” she asked. “An actress knows precisely why she’s here and where the story ends. A prop is left in a dark closet until it is to be used. I confess that while the plotline is intriguing, I am wholly unaware of your vision for where this story ends.”

There was much more to say, indeed Sophia found herself biting back the words on the tip of her tongue to add more. The thought that she was used as a prop to make his wife jealous did not suit her at all, and she much preferred it when their reasons to engage had a mutual benefit. The thought finally hit enough of a nerve that it drew her lips into a faint frown. But they’ve run out of time to confront it now. It simply wouldn’t do for her to entertain another dance with him, either.

Sophia’s hands slipped from his as soon as the song ended, a swifter-than-necessary dispatch. She curtsied to him, quite keen to avoid his eye contact now that she worked herself up to feel furious. “Good evening, Mister Dempsey.” She could not bring herself to thank him for the dance, enlightening as it was.

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