Three years ago...
Shanghai, China.
The neon skyline shimmered in the river's reflection like a thousand promises waiting to be broken.
The air smelled of rain and perfume, a damp mix of money and anticipation. Ian adjusted his tie, the stiff fabric reminding him of how out of place he felt.
Yet when he looked beside him - Isabelle Ravenglass in a dress that made the moon envious - he forgot about every scratch of discomfort.
They entered the lavish suite rented out for the night's fashion gala, a place where gold heels clicked on marble floors and champagne glasses never went empty.
Isabelle had a modeling gig in the heart of the city, and she had asked Ian to come along. Not as a bodyguard. Not as a distraction. But as her date.
Ian had raised an eyebrow when she asked.
"Date? But....
"But... I thought you only liked—"
"Tonight, I like you. Don't ruin it," Isabelle had teased with a wink.
But it wasn't just teasing. The longer she stayed by Ian's side, the more she forgot that her attraction usually ran in only one direction: toward women.
Something about Ian broke that compass. With him, she felt something unfamiliar - warm, disarming, electric.
At the party, it didn't take long for the wolves to come out.
Models, dressed in glistening silk and cynicism, approached Isabelle like they were smelling blood in her drink.
Their male partners, power-hungry men with jaws chiseled from arrogance, watched Ian with narrowed eyes. One of the models tilted her head, flashing a rehearsed grin.
"Isabelle, you brought a… friend. How quaint."
Another chimed in, her voice as polished as her teeth. "We thought you'd finally show up with someone who had a penthouse, not a budget motel."
Their boyfriends chuckled like a laugh track on cue.
Ian didn't flinch. He simply sipped his wine, set the glass down, and gave them a grin that could skin a snake.
"Oh, I don't own a penthouse," Ian said casually. "I own the hearts of women who are bored by men with penthouses."
The models blinked. A few giggled. Their boyfriends shifted uncomfortably.
"You're funny," one said. "But you've got no power, no name, no money. What are you even doing here?"
Ian leaned in slightly, looking him dead in the eye. "What am I doing here? I'm the reason your girlfriend's laughing right now."
The man's jaw twitched. "Watch your mouth."
"Only if you watch your leash. You're barking up the wrong man."
Isabelle burst out laughing. Real laughter. Not the fake, breathy kind she gave at parties. This came from the gut. The same kind of laugh she had in high school before fame carved her into something more polished and guarded.
"God, you're a menace," she whispered, eyes sparkling.
One of the boyfriends stepped forward, broad-shouldered and visibly irritated.
"You think you're tough?" he said. "I could end your life with a phone call."
Ian didn't even blink. "Then why haven't you? Afraid your phone's as soft as your handshake?"
The man's model girlfriend snorted into her drink.
"You talk a lot for someone who doesn't even belong here."
Ian turned to her with a sly grin. "And you're laughing a lot for someone who came here with a walking credit card."
That shut them up.
Then they went to a table where they could talk for hours uninterrupted. Good food, good wine, and a lot of laughs from Isabelle.
Hours passed. The party buzzed around them, but it felt like it was shrinking.
The music shifted to something....romantic and smooth like jazz.
"Shall we?" Isabelle rose from the table, smiling as she offered her hand to Ian.
Ian shook his head. "Dancing? Hell no. I could embarrass you, Isabelle."
"Plus, I hate jazz." He added.
Isabelle chuckled. "Come on. What could go wrong?"
"I brought you here because I like you. It won't matter if you embarass me."
Ian smiled. He took Isabelle's hand. His confident bloomed by Isabelle's words.
Ian and Isabelle danced, the crowd melting into a blur of glitter and muted voices. She rested her head against his chest, surprised by how natural it felt. Safe. Familiar.
"You didn't tell me you could dance, you deceitful asshole." she murmured.
"I didn't know I could," Ian replied, his hands gently at her waist.
She chuckled.
And just like that, she fell for him.
Not because of his looks. Not because of his charm. But because when she was with him, she forgot. She forgot she was supposed to only be into women.
She forgot she was surrounded by people who measured worth in dollars and prestige. She forgot the masks.
With Ian, she was just Isabelle. And she liked who that was.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"For what?"
"For being you. And for making me forget everything else."
They stayed like that for a while, swaying under dim lights and distant stars, not knowing what the future held—but knowing that in that moment, nothing else mattered.
Just heart over gold.