Julian and Crest followed Mr. Alistair through the hushed corridors. His steps were heavy, each one carrying a weight that seemed to part the crowd ahead of him.
Even passing staff straightened against the walls, as though the old man's presence alone forced discipline back into their bones
They entered the elevator, the golden doors closing with a soft chime, carrying them upward.
When the doors opened, the world shifted.
The grand ballroom stretched wide before them—crystal chandeliers spilling light like waterfalls, polished floors reflecting the glow of a hundred candles, and long tables draped in white silk.
Every corner breathed wealth: violins in the distance playing a soft, lilting melody; glasses clinking faintly as waiters poured champagne; perfume mingling with the deeper musk of cigar smoke clinging to old money.
Guests were already seated, their laughter muffled, voices sharp and measured. Suits gleamed. Dresses shimmered. Eyes turned as Julian stepped in.
