Ilyas felt a familiar sense of unease and discomfort settling within him as he navigated the ballroom. He couldn’t shake the feeling that these grandiose gatherings were more of an obligation than an enjoyable experience. Ilyas couldn’t help but feel a growing desire to escape from the watchful gaze of his father.
These grandiose gatherings, while meant to uphold the family’s reputation and status, often felt like a suffocating ordeal. He longed for moments of freedom, where he could be himself without the constant scrutiny and expectations that came with being the heir to a prominent family. The burden of responsibility weighed on his shoulders, and he wished for a reprieve from the relentless pressure of society. The ball was just another reminder of the life he felt forced into, rather than one he chose for himself.
Ilyas had always found the family business intriguing. The complexities of trade, the art of negotiation, and the delicate dance of politics all held a certain allure for him. He possessed a natural aptitude for it. However, what he resented was the burden of responsibility that came with being the heir. He didn’t want to be confined by the rigid expectations of the Keats family, to follow in their footsteps, to be molded into the next in line to run the empire. He craved the freedom to explore his own path, to make his own choices, and to escape the weight of familial obligations.
The burdens of his future as a Duke and the weight of his family’s expectations always weighed on him during such events. Every polite smile and nod felt like another link in the chain that bound him to this life he wasn’t sure he wanted. Yet, here he was, putting on a façade of social grace.
And now, this woman, Priti, had disrupted his brief escape. He didn’t care much about being rude. His thoughts wavered between the desire to leave this party and the knowledge that his absence would only stoke his father’s disapproval. The inner turmoil simmered beneath the surface of his polished but noticeably cold exterior.
Ilyas, still somewhat annoyed by the collision but intrigued by her name, couldn’t resist a cocky comment. “No need for apologies, Miss Mehta. Sometimes, it takes a bit of a bump to shake things up, wouldn’t you agree?” His smirking tone was hard to miss.
A wry grin tugged at the corners of Ilyas’s lips as he decided to add a touch of suave, cocky charm to his introduction. “I am Lord Ilyas Keats,” he purred, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a knowing gleam.
@Caticorn Priti