The sky was overcast the day they left Azrael's father's mansion. The air was sharp with silence, and the ride back to their apartment was unusually quiet. Isabella sat beside him in the sleek black car, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes watching the shifting blur of trees through the tinted windows. Azrael had not spoken much since they left, only giving the occasional curt nod when the driver asked a question. He was always reserved, always distant, but this silence felt deeper, heavier, like something unsaid was sitting between them.
Isabella's heart still fluttered every time her thoughts returned to that kiss.
It had been soft—unexpected. His lips, cool at first, had lingered against hers with a hesitation she never imagined he could possess. There had been no urgency, no need to conquer or dominate—just quiet, unsure intimacy. That moment, when his fingers brushed her cheek and his eyes searched hers, had left a mark deeper than any touch he had given her.
She realized it had been his first kiss. Azrael, the untouchable, emotionless man, had never kissed anyone before. And he had kissed her.
But now, he was back to his usual self—stoic, unreadable, his gaze fixed on the road ahead as if he hadn't let himself slip the night before. She didn't press him about it. She had learned to keep her questions buried, to hide her curiosity in silence.
When they arrived home, Azrael didn't wait. He stepped out of the car, handed a quick instruction to the valet, and walked into the building without looking back. Isabella followed him quietly, the echo of her heels tapping lightly against the marble floors as they made their way to the private elevator.
Later that evening, Isabella was resting in the lounge, curled up in a blanket, flipping through a magazine she wasn't reading when the apartment doorbell rang. She rose slowly, surprised. Azrael hadn't mentioned any visitors.
Opening the door, she was greeted by a sharply dressed delivery man holding a large cream-colored box and two smaller velvet cases.
"For Miss Isabella," the man said with a polite bow, offering the items.
She took them, her brows furrowed, and thanked him. As she closed the door, she noticed a small white envelope taped to the side of the box. Her name was written in Azrael's sharp, deliberate handwriting.
She opened the envelope.
"Be ready by 7. Dinner Party. -A"
That was it. No explanation. No details. Just a command.
She placed the box on the bed and carefully untied the silk ribbon.
Inside was a breathtaking black silk gown. The fabric shimmered like water under moonlight, smooth and luxurious to the touch. The neckline dipped just enough to be daring but remained elegant. Lace embroidered with tiny black gemstones adorned the shoulders and traced a delicate path down her back. The gown hugged her body like it had been made for her. She opened the velvet cases—inside, a pair of diamond earrings and a matching bracelet glittered beneath the lights.
She exhaled slowly. Azrael never did anything halfway.
By 6:45, Isabella stood before the tall mirror in their room, adjusting the final touches. Her hair had been styled in soft waves that cascaded over one shoulder. Her lips were painted a soft shade of crimson, and her lashes curled upward with gentle precision. The diamond earrings twinkled with every turn of her head.
She stared at her reflection, her chest rising and falling with a mixture of nervousness and awe. She had never looked like this before—so polished, so regal. But underneath the beauty, her stomach twisted. Azrael hadn't spoken to her all day. He hadn't said anything after that kiss. And now he was taking her to a dinner party, sending her expensive things like she was a doll to be dressed up.
At 7:00 sharp, he appeared in the doorway. He wore a black suit that hugged his frame with tailored perfection. His collar was slightly open, revealing a hint of his neck, and his dark hair was brushed back with careless ease. He looked devastating.
His eyes swept over her slowly.
"You're ready," he said simply.
She nodded.
He didn't compliment her. Didn't smile. He just offered his arm, and together they walked out into the night.
—
The party was held at a private estate outside the city, nestled behind a tall wrought-iron gate and a long driveway lined with lanterns. The building was massive—white stone and gold trimming, high arches, and cascading lights that made the whole place shimmer. There were rows of luxury cars parked outside, and photographers were stationed at the entrance.
Azrael didn't pause for pictures. He walked straight past the cameras, ignoring the flashes, his hand resting lightly on Isabella's back.
Inside, the party was extravagant. Golden chandeliers hung overhead, glittering above polished floors and elegant guests. Everyone was dressed in finery—velvet gowns, silk tuxedos, sparkling jewelry. A string quartet played soft music in the background as waiters glided past with glasses of champagne and trays of hors d'oeuvres.
Isabella stayed close to Azrael, her arm gently hooked around his. She felt the eyes on her, the whispers behind fans and wine glasses. People were staring.
"Is that Azrael Virellius?"
"Who's the girl with him?"
"She's gorgeous, but I've never seen her before."
Azrael was calm, collected, completely at ease. He nodded at a few familiar faces, exchanged a brief word or two with some colleagues, but he didn't introduce Isabella. He simply held her close as they moved through the crowd, saying nothing but claiming her presence by the way his hand lingered on her waist.
An hour passed, and Isabella began to relax. She even laughed softly at something a guest said, sipping her champagne, allowing herself to enjoy the attention. For a moment, it felt like she was part of Azrael's world.
Then she saw him.
At the top of the grand staircase.
He wasn't alone.
He was walking with a woman—tall, elegant, dressed in red. Her hand was curled around his, their fingers entwined. She leaned in close, whispering something that made him smirk. They didn't look back. They just kept walking, slowly, up the stairs.
Isabella's smile froze. Her breath caught.
Her fingers curled tightly around her glass.
She stared at them until they disappeared down the hall above.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
Why was he with her? Why was he holding her hand like that? Why hadn't he said anything?
She forced herself to look away, blinking rapidly to stop the tears from forming. The music felt louder now, almost unbearable. People were still talking to her, laughing, gesturing—but she couldn't hear them. She felt dizzy.
A group of men approached her.
"Miss, would you like a drink?"
"You look lonely. Can I keep you company?"
Isabella shook her head, forcing a polite smile. "Excuse me, I need a moment."
She left the main room quickly, her heels clicking against the marble as she made her way to the staircase. She climbed slowly, carefully, her breath shallow.
At the top, the hallway stretched ahead—long, elegant, lined with doors on both sides.
She didn't know where they went. But she walked forward, one hand trailing along the wall.
The corridor was empty.
Silent.
Then she heard it—a faint murmur. A soft laugh. A rustle of clothing.
She followed the sound, her heart thundering in her chest.
At the end of the hall, one door was ajar. Just slightly.
She stepped closer, the knot in her stomach tightening.
She peeped inside.
Her world stopped.
Azrael stood by the edge of the bed. The woman in red was half-naked, her dress undone, her back bare. His hand rested on her hip. He was touching her—not gently, not passionately, but with the same carelessness he gave everything else. He didn't notice Isabella.
Neither of them did.
Her chest caved in. The pain hit her like a wave.
She stepped back.
Tears streamed down her face as she turned and ran.
Azrael heard it—the sudden creak of the hallway floor, the gasp, the retreating footsteps. He turned sharply, his eyes scanning the space.
He ran after her.
But she was already gone.
"Isabella!" he called, his voice louder than he meant.
No response.
He stormed down the stairs, pushed past the guests, and into the night.
The rain had started, light at first, then heavier. He didn't care.
He cursed himself, his voice echoing through the quiet street.
"Fuck!"
He pulled at his hair, pacing in the middle of the road like a madman.
She wasn't answering her phone.
Thunder crashed.
He kept walking—left, right, down alleys, through gardens. His shoes were soaked. His suit clung to him. His hands shook.
He had never felt this way before.
Worried.
Desperate.
Scared.
Finally, near the park gates, he saw her.
She was curled into herself, sitting on the wet ground, her knees pulled to her chest, her hair plastered to her face. She was crying—hard. He could hear the sobs even through the rain.
His chest constricted.
He walked toward her, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.
"Isabella…" he whispered.
She trembled.
His presence made her flinch.
He reached out.
She looked up at him, her eyes red, her face soaked with tears and rain. She looked at him like he was a monster.
"Nothing happened," he said. The words came out low, rough, almost like a plea.
She didn't say anything.
She just stared, her whole body shaking.
Azrael stood there, frozen, drenched and aching in a way he didn't understand.
She was breaking in front of him.
And for the first time in his life—
He felt it.
Regret.
Guilt.
Something close to pain.