The night was a mirror of starlight and glass.
Outside, camera flashes stitched light into the fabric of the evening; inside, chandeliers swayed gently above a ballroom carved out of dreams. Gold leaf adorned the walls, classical strings wound through the air like smoke, and laughter rose and fell in rhythmic tides, elegant and fleeting.
The moment Iris stepped through the tall double doors, the world seemed to still—just for a breath.
Heads turned.
Eyes followed.
And for a moment, she wasn't Iris the analyst, the intern, or the woman tangled in half-truths and operational shadows.
She was a vision.
Her dress was a deep midnight silk, cascading down her body like ink poured from the heavens. The neckline dipped delicately, not provocative, but bold enough to silence words. It cinched at the waist before flowing into an elegant silhouette that danced with each step. Her skin caught the soft glow of amber chandeliers. Hair swept back to reveal a sharp jaw, eyes lined in dark gold—regal, radiant, untouchable.
Beside her, Isabella was just as formidable—glimmering in an emerald gown that hugged her body with unapologetic confidence. Curves highlighted, hair slicked into a high twist, a single diamond trailing down her collarbone like a fallen star. She walked like she owned every floor she touched.
Together, they didn't enter the gala.
They arrived.
And the room noticed.
From politicians to tech moguls, analysts to socialites, every pair of eyes seemed drawn to the duo making their way across the marbled floor, leaving a wake of whispered speculation behind them.
Near the bar, two familiar figures watched with glasses of aged whiskey in hand.
Marek was the first to break into a grin. "Dressed to kill," he murmured, raising his glass as if in salute.
Ainsworth gave a low whistle. "She walks like she knows we're watching. And she's letting us."
"More like daring us," Marek added.
They clinked glasses, amusement layered with something else—an unspoken shift in the air.
"Think this is the moment?" Ainsworth asked under his breath, eyes now locked on Iris as she laughed softly at something Isabella said.
Marek's smile faded just enough to show thought behind it. "The moment he falls?"
A pause.
Then a sip.
"Feels like it."
They turned just as the women approached. Iris, eyes steady but warm, gave a small smile. "We're not late, are we?"
"Oh no," Ainsworth said, setting his glass down, "you're perfectly on time—for the crash site."
Iris raised a brow. "Excuse me?"
Marek grinned. "Ignore him. He's just surprised you didn't set off the fire alarms. You two could've burned the place down with less effort."
Isabella gave a theatrical sigh. "Flattery from suits like you? I might just faint."
"Save the dramatics for the dance floor," Ainsworth replied. "But seriously—where is your date, Iris?"
That teasing lilt.
That carefully baited question.
Iris held her ground, smile unflinching. "He's on his way."
Marek gave a look to Ainsworth—brief, but charged with unspoken meaning.
"He better be," Marek said. "Would be a shame for him to miss… this moment."
A pause fell between them like a beat before a verdict.
It was Isabella who broke it, ever the mistress of mood control. "Come on. Let's get drinks before you two start writing sonnets. Or obituaries."
As the group drifted toward the bar, Iris found herself trailing just slightly behind, her eyes scanning the crowd.
He wasn't here yet.
And somehow, that mattered more than it should.
She was surrounded by chatter and charm, compliments that rolled off like practiced notes, but none of it touched her. Her thoughts were tracing shadows—not of missions or mayhem, but of the way Aldrin had looked at her that day in the hallway… like the silence between them said more than any words could.
Why wasn't he here yet?
Why did that make her chest tighten?
"Waiting for him?" Isabella whispered close, her tone teasing but her eyes soft.
Iris didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
Because behind her, the doors opened again.
And everything shifted.
The room was already glowing with soft opulence, laughter stretching like silk between champagne flutes and classical strings. And yet—
A sudden hush.
A ripple in the air.
The doors opened once more, not with fanfare, but with precision.
She entered alone.
Tall, poised, and effortlessly regal, the woman who stepped into the ballroom was unmistakably royal—Princess Ranya of Vaelora, daughter of a foreign monarch, her name often whispered in the same breath as diplomacy, scandal, and gallery-level beauty. Tonight, her presence had been hinted at, speculated about, but never confirmed.
Until now.
And just like that, gazes shifted.
Away from Iris.
Ranya was draped in a floor-length velvet gown of obsidian and sapphire, embroidered with constellations in thread so fine it shimmered only when caught in motion. Her neckline framed a delicate collarbone and a choker made of obsidian, gifted by her mother, they said, before the girl ever knew what men were capable of. Her long dark hair was swept up into a style that exposed the graceful curve of her neck—power in restraint, allure in control.
She did not smile as she walked.
She observed.
Every step was a statement: I know what I am—and I know you know it too.
Isabella muttered under her breath, "Oh hell…"
Ainsworth leaned over to Marek. "You see that?"
"I'd have to be dead not to."
Isabella chuckled. "Guess the art pieces Vaelora donated were just an excuse. She's not here for the gallery."
Ainsworth quirked a brow, still watching the princess as she moved. "You think she's here for Aldrin?"
"She's heard the stories," Marek said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "The ones that never make it to print. Shadows. Silence. Power. Women like that…" He gestured toward Ranya. "They don't chase crowns. They court the ones who don't wear them."
Iris kept her gaze forward, sipping her drink, but the cold edge had returned to her smile.
"She's stunning," Isabella said softly beside her, watching Iris out the corner of her eye.
"Mhmm," Iris replied without looking. "She knows it too."
"And she's walking this way."
True to form, Ranya glided toward the bar, halting just a few feet away from them, flanked by no security—only the silence of her reputation.
Marek stepped forward, offering a courteous nod. "Your Highness. An unexpected honor."
Ranya tilted her head slightly, acknowledging him with the barest curve of her lips. "The invitation came with a whisper. I followed the sound."
Her voice was like silk wrapped around steel.
She turned, finally facing Iris—those royal eyes cool, calculated. "And you must be the analyst. The intern." She said it gently. But the emphasis cut like a stiletto heel pressed to the throat.
Iris met her gaze, unblinking. "Just Iris tonight. The intern doesn't get invited to galas."
"Charming," Ranya replied, her accent smooth. "I suppose I'm here for the art pieces. But I've always preferred studying people. They tend to reveal far more than portraits."
Marek gave a low whistle, smirking behind his glass. "You have competition," he said toward Iris in a mock whisper.
Ainsworth leaned in, adding with a crooked grin, "Someone better warn Aldrin."
Ranya's lips twitched as she glanced at the entrance. "Ah… the chairman. The man who doesn't show."
Iris's expression didn't falter, but her spine straightened slightly.
Ranya continued, "I've heard things. Is it true he once walked through gunfire to protect a hacker? Or was that just a metaphor?"
Iris sipped her drink. "We all walk through something."
"But only some of us leave fire in our wake," Ranya returned smoothly. "I'm looking forward to meeting him."
There it was.
An unspoken challenge wrapped in silk and sapphire.
The music swelled again, filling the space left in the aftermath of the silent war now being waged behind the eyes of two women dressed like royalty and raised on opposite ideologies—one in shadow, one in spotlight.
"Should we place bets?" Ainsworth asked quietly, nudging Marek. "On who sets him aflame first?"
Marek didn't answer.
Because at that moment, the air shifted again.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor beyond the entryway.
Low, steady, unrushed.
He was coming.
And they all felt it.