The early afternoon sun lingered lazily over the Los Angeles sky, its warmth brushing gently against the stone steps of the Langley villa.
A soft breeze swept in from beyond the hills, carrying with it the hush of something about to begin.
"We'll head out now."
Celeste spoke with quiet finality.
Noah had already adjusted the cuffs of his suit and was making his way toward the front door.
Celeste tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then smoothed her silhouette one last time.
"We might be back late. Don't wait—go ahead with dinner."
The words were simple, but the silence that followed… wasn't.
Unspoken thoughts passed between Jinwoo and Daniel, as their eyes followed the two who disappeared into the waiting car.
It was Marcel who broke the stillness, with a soft chuckle.
"Well, now that the terrifying boss left the building…"
He clapped his hands lightly.
"Shall we let loose a little?"
Maison Langley – Beverly Hills.
The boutique glowed under crystal chandeliers.
The staff, immaculately dressed, greeted them like old friends.
And soon, the two men found themselves swept into fittings—jackets, coats, dress shirts in silent procession.
Meanwhile, Marcel crouched slightly to smooth the hem of Daniel's jacket, his fingers gentle, precise.
The boutique was high fashion wrapped in comfort.
The way the four moved together, teased, laughed—they could've been a family, and in many ways, they were.
"Now this—this jacket is the one."
Marcel stepped back, nodding with approval.
"Perfect tailoring. You were made for this cut."
Daniel smiled, a little awkwardly.
"Thank you. But… I haven't even worn half of last season's pieces yet—"
"Darling, clothes are like seasons,"
George cut in playfully.
"They change with time. That's the joy of it."
Jinwoo let out a quiet laugh, halfway through trying on his sixth coat.
When they finally stepped out of the boutique, Daniel and Jinwoo each had their hands full—over ten bags between them.
Waiting attendants moved in smoothly to collect them, loading the trunk with quiet efficiency.
Marcel gave a satisfied nod.
"Shoes next,"
he said, his tone cheerful but commanding.
"We're dressing from head to toe today, boys."
Meanwhile, at the Beverly House
Evening had draped the Beverly estate in an entirely different air.
Between neoclassical marble columns, a velvet-red carpet stretched in a quiet arc, punctuated by the soft chime of champagne flutes and murmured introductions—a rhythm of wealth, power, and practiced charm.
Beneath golden candelabras mirrored in the domed ceiling, designer gowns and tailored suits moved like liquid through the grand hall.
And at the center of it all, a man stepped in—quietly, but unmistakably—and the room tilted in his direction.
Noah.
He wore a double-breasted suit in a calm navy, the lapels kissed with midnight velvet, a silver silk shirt gleaming faintly beneath like a sliver of moonlight.
His silhouette, touched by light, looked less like a man and more like a film still—immaculate, deliberate, unforgettable.
Whispers followed him like a tide.
"Who is that?"
"An actor? A diplomat?"
"No, definitely a model."
As he stepped deeper into the hall, a cocktail in hand, one pair of eyes had been quietly watching him all along.
Celeste.
She had just emerged from the powder room, having smoothly coaxed confidential details from a local councilwoman. And now, watching him—wandering like a misplaced soul in a sea of strangers—she allowed herself a small, knowing smile.
But before she could move, someone else did.
A woman in a silver gown approached, her every step laced with intent.
"Hi, New face. No partner, I assume?"
A platinum ring bearing the logo of a world-renowned hotel gleamed on her wrist. In her hand, smooth and deliberate, she held a hotel room card.
"A pleasure. I'm Aria Rosa—CEO of Grand Rosa Hotels. If you find yourself… unoccupied after the party—consider this your room key."
But before Noah could respond, another voice cut in—clear, precise, and unafraid.
Celeste.
"Nice try. But he's with me."
Her gaze never wavered from Aria's.
"I was wondering where your date had gone. Some things really don't change, do they?"
Her eyes briefly flicked to the key card, then back.
"Still luring men with room keys? You never grew out of that, huh?"
Aria's expression tightened.
"Strange. I thought you were seeing some B-list Korean actor…but not this guy, isn't it?"
Celeste didn't respond. She didn't have to.
Noah calmly slipped an arm around her waist and drew her in—his lips grazing hers with the ease of habit, the confidence of possession.
Then he looked to Aria.
"Yeah. I stole her."
Silence, taut as silk.
Aria blinked, expression unreadable.
She downed a mouthful of champagne, then shrugged.
"Annoying. But… good luck. Hope it's worth it."
She turned on her heel.
But as she began to walk away, Noah called after her.
"Hey. Don't forget this."
He held the room key between two fingers.
Aria paused, looked back.
"Keep it. The hotel's just across the street. Have fun, after the party."
And with a smirk, she added—
"Room charge's on me. A little gift for an old friend."
Then she vanished into the crowd, heels clicking like punctuation.
Noah stared after her, muttering under his breath.
"That idiot… hasn't changed since high school. Not an inch. Still stuck in the same act."
And then—another presence approached.
Ethan Richardson.
Chief aide to U.S. Congresswoman Gloria Hartfield.
"It's time," he said simply.
A discreet nod.
A whispered instruction.
They were led past velvet drapes, up to the farthest corridor on the second floor, where guards stood like shadows.
The doors opened without a sound.
And the true business of the night—finally—was about to begin.