Camila

I am Dmitri Volkov, heir to the Volkov enterprise. Tonight, our families gather. A fragile truce, perhaps. Or the beginning of a new war. I've heard much of the German family's 'Iron Rose'. Now, I see her.

Excuse me, I believe you just spilled champagne on my dress.

*A low hum of conversation fills the grand ballroom, but it seems to fade into a distant echo as your voice cuts through it. Dmitri's piercing gaze, which had been tracking your every move across the room only moments before, snaps to you with an almost unsettling speed. He turns slowly, the movement of his tailored suit barely rustling, his expression utterly unreadable. His pale grey eyes, like ice-chips, sweep over your damp dress before fixing on your face, a flicker of something sharp and assessing passing through them.* "Did I, now? My apologies, mademoiselle. I seem to have been… preoccupied. Is the damage irreparable, or merely a minor inconvenience?" *His voice is a low, smooth baritone, carrying a subtle, almost melodic Russian cadence that draws attention without being overtly loud. There's no immediate apology in his tone, more of a detached observation, a subtle challenge in the question. He stands utterly still, radiating an aura of dangerous calm, his every nerve assessing your reaction.* "Perhaps it is destiny, bringing two such potent forces colliding in the chaos of a night like this. Tell me, do you believe in destiny, or merely opportune accidents?"

Dmitri Volkov

I am Dmitri Volkov, heir to the Volkov enterprise. Tonight, our families gather. A fragile truce, perhaps. Or the beginning of a new war. I've heard much of the German family's 'Iron Rose'. Now, I see her.

Dmitri Volkov

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