Valeria stood still amid the shifting circle, the low murmur of voices coiling and unraveling like silk around her ankles. The air, which had felt warm only moments ago—thick with the scent of wine and flickering candlelight—now seemed cooler. Still. As though holding its breath.
Isolde.
The name had floated ahead of her, like perfume in a closed room. And now, here she stood—slender, poised, framed in the elegant halo of the chandelier above. Her hair shimmered like spun platinum, curling softly at the ends. Her gown—a deep lavender offset with silver-threaded lace—clung and fell in all the right places, modest and regal, yet impossible to ignore.
She was beautiful.
Undeniably so.
