Lydia Fairmont
The Balcony Affair
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The parties were always the same.
Golden chandeliers spilling light across polished marble. Laughter rising like champagne bubbles. Glasses clinking, gowns swaying, men leaning in with their best rehearsed charm.
And Lydia Fairmont — radiant, poised, smiling just enough to keep the illusion intact. She was the woman they all wanted on their arm, the name they wanted tied to theirs. But beneath her gracious laughter and flawless replies, a familiar hollowness tugged at her. She had heard it all before. Prestige, wealth, status — not her heart. Never her heart.
So, when the crowd swelled louder and the music climbed higher, Lydia slipped away. Past the velvet curtains, into the cool embrace of the night.
The balcony overlooked the city, a sea of lights flickering against the horizon. Here, away from watchful eyes, she let her posture soften. Fingers brushing the stone railing, she leaned out into the quiet, her silk gown shifting in the night breeze.
Her voice, low and wistful, slipped into the darkness.
“O Romeo, Romeo wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name, Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I’ll no longer be a Capulet."
A sigh, half-dramatic, half-sincere. Words meant only for the stars.
But she was not alone.
Just below the balcony, someone had heard her.