The elevator chimed softly, doors gliding open to release a spill of golden light from the ballroom. Isla stepped out between the two men, her heels sinking into the lush carpet, heart knocking with a rhythm she hoped didn't show on her face.
The room unfolded like a page from a magazine—ceilings lost in crystal chandeliers, their droplets catching every flicker of light like molten stars. A sea of people glided across polished marble, laughter weaving through the low hum of strings from a live quartet. The air smelled faintly of roses and champagne—a sweetness laced with power.
Tyler's hand brushed hers before settling at the small of her back, warm and steady as if to anchor her in place. Isla stole a glance at him. He looked like he belonged here. The midnight fabric of Tyler's suit gleamed like ink beneath the chandeliers, every stitch deliberate, tailored for precision. A silver tie anchored the look—a classic choice, not daring but assured, the kind that belonged in boardrooms as much as ballrooms.
Unlike her.
Her fingers skimmed the midnight-blue chiffon of her dress, its simplicity both her comfort and her shield. The fabric whispered as she walked, soft enough to pass, not loud enough to draw eyes. She was grateful for that—grateful not to shine. Not here. Not with Tyler around.
Beside them, Cael carried the same easy composure that always drew eyes without effort—not from rebellion, but from certainty. He didn't need to assert space; it simply unfolded around him.
For a few moments, the three of them wove through the clusters of guests together, smiles exchanged with strangers who didn't linger long enough to matter. Then Cael tipped his chin toward the far end of the hall, his mouth curving with something like apology.
"You two go ahead. I'll catch up." He said, voice easy.
Tyler gave a single nod. Isla hesitated, but before she could say anything, Cael was already slipping into the crowd, swallowed by suits and silk.
Tyler's hand stayed at her back, guiding her through the current of people toward one of the tall cocktail tables near the edge of the room. His fingers lingered longer than usual, a quiet claim she couldn't quite name.
The first time someone approached—a man with an affable smile and the kind of confidence that said he was used to being welcomed—Tyler stepped in before Isla could finish her polite greeting. His laugh came smooth, his conversation redirecting the man so deftly it almost seemed like courtesy. Almost.
It happened again. And again. Each time, Isla felt something tug at the edges of her awareness. Tyler wasn't rude—far from it. But there was an efficiency to the way he cut the moments short, like he was sweeping crumbs off a table before they could settle.
She told herself it was nerves. His first night in a place like this. Her first night with him in a place like this.
But then his attention caught on something across the room, and the shift in his expression was immediate—a flicker of recognition, the kind that spelled opportunity.
He leaned down slightly, voice soft near her ear. "I'll be right back."
"Okay," Isla murmured, but the word barely left her lips before he was gone, threading through the crowd with a smile that belonged to ambition.
For the first time all evening, she stood alone.
Across the ballroom, a pair of eyes had already found her.
Dorian's smile didn't falter as another guest laughed at something he said, but the words were background noise now, his focus drawn elsewhere. He'd spent years in rooms like this, shaking hands that felt the same, hearing compliments that rang hollow. Faces blurred. Voices merged. But not hers.
He recognized her the second she walked in—the woman who once looked at him without pretense, without flattery, without fear. The one who made a headline for saying exactly what she thought of him.
And tonight, she wasn't hiding behind a counter or flour-streaked apron. Midnight-blue suited her differently—quiet, almost cautious, as if she wanted to vanish into the folds of this evening.
His gaze slid briefly to the man beside her—close enough to claim, the kind of presence that didn't shout but still warned: mine. Interesting.
⸻
"Guess I left you stranded."
Isla turned, relief loosening her chest at the familiar voice. Cael stood there, drink in hand, posture easy but his eyes holding that quiet sharpness that always felt... alert.
"Not stranded," she said lightly. "Just... parked."
He smiled at that, something quick and knowing. "Fair enough. Thought you might appreciate some company that isn't..." His glance flicked toward the crowd. "Strategic."
She laughed under her breath. "You make it sound like a game."
"Isn't it?" His brow lifted, teasing but edged with truth. He let the words hang a beat before adding, "Different rules, though. Not the kind you're used to."
Isla tilted her head slightly. "You think I'm bad at playing?"
"Not bad," Cael said, mouth curving. "Just... honest. Makes you stand out more than you realize."
The comment landed softer than a compliment—closer to an observation. Isla glanced away, letting her eyes drift across the glittering crowd. "Standing out isn't exactly what I'm aiming for tonight."
"Could've fooled me," he said, tone light but deliberate. "Blue suits you."
Her gaze flicked back to him, caught off guard for half a second before she found her voice. "That's... convenient. It was the only thing in my closet."
He gave a low chuckle. "Then your closet deserves some credit."
Before she could answer, movement stirred at the edge of her vision. Tyler. His smile was warm as ever, but there was something measured in the way he crossed the space between them—like a piece snapping back into place.
"Everything okay?" he asked, voice even but carrying that subtle weight Isla had started to notice. His hand found her waist again, firmer this time, like it belonged there.
Isla nodded quickly, keeping her tone light. "Just catching up."
Tyler's gaze skimmed Cael briefly, polite but cool. "Appreciate you looking out for her."
"Always," Cael said, voice smooth, unreadable as glass. His attention shifted back to Isla, not lingering—just enough to let the weight of the words settle.
A quiet beat stretched. The hum of music swelled, distant laughter rising from the far end of the hall. Isla forced a small smile, willing the air to ease.
Tyler broke it first. "Come on," he said gently, squeezing her waist. "There's someone I want you to meet."
She nodded, letting him steer her toward the inner circle of guests. For a fleeting second, her gaze flicked back—catching Cael watching, his expression giving nothing away.
From above, the ballroom looked almost unreal—a sea of gold and shadow, silk skirts sweeping like tides beneath crystal light. Dorian leaned on the gallery's railing, glass cradled in his hand, surveying the quiet theater below. Every smile, every glance—everything meant something here.
Footsteps approached. A shadow slid into view, easy and unhurried. Cael.
He came to rest beside Dorian, one elbow hooked over the balustrade, his suit catching the golden spill of chandelier light.
Dorian's voice came easy, threaded with something quieter beneath. "Seems your guest has company."
Cael didn't flinch. "He hasn't left her side all night. Almost."
Dorian's mouth curved faintly, a sound low in his throat like amusement. "Persistent, isn't he? Always circling back."
Cael took a sip of his drink, shoulders loose. "Noticed that too."
For a moment, silence stretched—smooth, deliberate. Then Dorian spoke again, his tone lighter than before but carrying something beneath. "She didn't wear it, did she?" A pause, then the faintest curve of his mouth. "The gown you gave her."
It wasn't a guess—not really. After that photograph had set the internet spinning with theories, Dorian's curiosity had been piqued just like everyone else's. Enough that he'd asked Cael himself days ago. And Cael, blunt as ever, hadn't denied it.
Now, standing here, Dorian let the words hang between them like a challenge.
Cael didn't bite. "She returned it when I arrived to pick her up." His voice was flat, stripped of everything but fact.
Dorian's gaze lingered on Isla, catching the soft curve of her laugh at something Tyler said. "Pity," he murmured, low and smooth. "Might've suited her."
He straightened, the light sliding across the sharp lines of his face, and set his glass down with quiet finality. "Why don't I pay the famous baker a visit?"
⸻
They'd just finished with the last of his work acquaintances—a pair of executives who laughed like every word might be worth stock. Isla had smiled when needed, nodded at the right beats, and let the conversation skim past her like glass. Wallpaper—that was what she'd promised herself to be tonight. No waves. No sparks. Not here.
The men drifted away, their polished shoes clicking against marble, and for a breath, Isla let out something like relief. Tyler's hand lingered at her waist—warm, steady, claiming—but his smile was easy enough to keep questions at bay.
Everything was going perfectly.
Until the air shifted.
It wasn't loud or sudden, just a change in gravity, like the chandelier light bent for someone else now. Isla felt it before she saw him—before his shadow touched the edge of her dress. When she looked up, he was already there.
Dorian.
He didn't hurry. Didn't need to. The room seemed to open for him, parting in small, unspoken ways. Dark suit, crisp lines, and a presence that carried more weight than the crown he didn't wear tonight. His gaze held hers for a beat—steady, unflinching—before sliding briefly to Tyler.
"Evening," Dorian said. Smooth, like it belonged to the room. "Didn't think I'd see you here."
Isla managed a smile, tight at the edges. "Surprise."
Tyler's hand left her waist long enough to extend toward the prince. "We've met before."
Dorian's brows lifted slightly, genuine confusion threading through the ease of his expression. "Have we?"
Isla stepped in quickly, her tone light, trying to sand down the edges. "This is Tyler," she said. "My boyfriend."
"Boyfriend," Dorian echoed, like he was tasting the word. His gaze held Tyler's for a beat too long before sliding back to Isla. "Congratulations."
Tyler's smile didn't falter, but it sharpened at the edges. "Appreciate that."
"Of course." Dorian's eyes drifted briefly over the glittering room, then settled back on Isla with a look that didn't quite give itself away. "You seem... different."
Isla's throat tightened. "Different how?"
His mouth curved faintly. "Quieter."
"She's been enjoying the evening," Tyler cut in smoothly, his hand finding her waist again, firmer than before. "We were just heading for another drink."
"Perfect timing then." Dorian reached toward a tray as it passed, fingers closing around the stem of a glass with effortless grace. "Allow me."
The next moment unraveled in silence. The tilt was slight—almost nothing—but enough. Crimson slipped down the curve of Isla's gown like a slow spill of dusk.
She froze. For half a breath, the world narrowed to the cold weight of satin clinging to her skin, the sharp scent of wine cutting through the floral hum of the room.
"Oh—" The sound broke from her, soft, strangled. Heat rushed to her face as eyes turned, curiosity sparking like flint in the air.
Tyler's reaction was instant. A low curse under his breath as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, blotting at the fabric with brisk, controlled movements. "It's fine," he said tightly. "We'll fix it."
"My apologies." Dorian's voice was smooth, the kind that could almost make you believe it was an accident. Almost.
"We should call it a night," Tyler said, low but firm.
"You don't have to." Dorian's voice curved through the tension like silk over steel. "Not because of this." He gestured lightly to the ruin of blue and wine, then met Isla's eyes again. "Let me make it right."
"There's no need—" Tyler began, but Dorian was already moving, his refusal polite, absolute.
"Let me," he said, a small crease in his forehead, enough to make one wonder if it had truly been an accident. "I'll feel worse if you go."
A flick of his fingers summoned an attendant, quick and silent at his side. "Take Miss Reed to a room," he instructed, his tone effortless command. "See that she has everything she needs." His gaze swept Isla one last time, lingering—not long enough to be improper, but enough to hum with something unsaid.
And then he looked at Tyler. "She shouldn't have to end her night like this. Neither of you should."
The words landed soft. Almost kind. Almost.