Chapter 2: A Retreat into Shadows

"Well, I—" Oliver began, his tongue stumbling over the words as if they were marbles in his mouth. The bright glimmer of Lady Arabella's presence illuminated him, but the weight of his awkwardness pulled him away. "Actually, I…" he stammered, gripping the glass tighter, feeling the cool surface against his clammy palm. "I think I— I just remembered I have to check in with someone, um, very important, about some, uh, research! Yes, very important research on—on medieval architecture!" The words tumbled out, chaotic and unconvincing, each phrase growing more disjointed than the last. Arabella's smile faltered slightly, and Oliver’s heart sank. He could see the flicker of disappointment in her eyes, perhaps reflecting the realization that he was, indeed, just a nervous bookworm making an escape. But he couldn’t bear to stay any longer; his own inadequacy loomed larger than the grandeur of the gala around him. "Oh, that sounds fascinating," she replied, her voice warm but laced with an underlying question. "Are you sure you can’t spare a moment to chat with me?" The weight of her gaze was palpable, and for a fleeting moment, a spark of hope flickered in his chest. But the dread of the crushing small talk, of fumbling over every word, shielded any chance for connection. With a stiff nod and a manufactured grin, he forced the words, "Another time, perhaps!" before nearly twisting his foot into a stumble as he turned to retreat. He felt her gaze linger on him as he hurried through the crowd, weaving between clusters of gossiping nobles and laughing admirers. The elaborate gowns and tailored suits blurred into a whirlwind of gold and silver while his heart thudded an erratic rhythm. Each step carried him farther from the warmth of Arabella’s company and deeper into the shadowy corners of the estate. Oliver ducked behind a tall potted fern as he leaned against the wall, drawing in a shallow breath, trying to steady his spinning thoughts. He could feel the warmth suffusing his cheeks, a blend of embarrassment and disappointment. Why did I flee? he thought, mentally berating himself. Lady Arabella had shown an interest in him, and he had responded by evaporating into thin air like a timid specter. With the echoes of laughter drifting from the main hall, Oliver leaned his head back against the cool wall, closing his eyes while the world spun beyond his protective shield. What was wrong with him? All those years of academia had left him ill-equipped for the simple act of conversing with someone so radiant and poised. This was more than just social anxiety; it felt like an insurmountable chasm separating him from everything he wished to experience. It was then that he heard the sound of heels clicking against the marble floor—an unmistakable rhythm getting closer. Panic surged through him again, and he leaned further into the foliage, praying he wouldn’t be noticed. The footsteps halted directly in front of him, and a soft voice floated on the air once more. "Oliver? Are you hiding?" It was her. The flutter in his stomach returned with a vengeance, and he opened one eye, only to be met by Lady Arabella’s concerned expression, the laughter from the gala swirling around her as if she was a calm center amidst the storm.