Velgrave. Winter. The Night of the Charity Gala.
The chandeliers hung like icicles, hundreds of them, shimmering above the marble floor like they might shatter if anyone breathed too loudly .
Rhea didn't breathe. Not really.
She stood near the edge of the room, just beside a towering white pillar veined in gold. One foot slightly behind the other. Palms pressed together, as if in prayer. A thin line of sweat cooled at the back of her neck.
Nobody looked at her. Not even once.
A violin began to play from somewhere above, the notes so soft they felt like fingertips over glass. The room didn't speak—it rustled. Gowns whispering across the floor. Stemware clinking like tiny bells. Laughter filtered through air too rehearsed to be real.
Her dress was too tight around the ribs.
It wasn't hers. Of course not. The navy fabric pinched when she turned, the sleeves just a little too short, leaving her wrists bare. Someone had pressed it before lending it. It still smelled like someone else's perfume—too floral, too strong. A borrowed coat of dignity that didn't fit the bones underneath.
Her breath hitched. She adjusted the scarf around her neck. Not part of the outfit. Just hers. Thin cotton, pale beige, soft from years of use. She hadn't meant to bring it, but the cold had followed her in. It wasn't the weather.
The cold here was in the light.
A waiter passed her with a tray of champagne. She didn't reach for a glass. He didn't offer.
She focused on the florals instead.
A tall crystal vase stood a few steps away, its base lit from beneath. The light made the petals glow like they were alive. White. Small. Soft-edged. Night jasmine.
Her chest tightened.
She took one step closer. Then another.
The scent met her first—faint, nearly drowned by stronger perfumes in the room. But it was there. Earthy. Honest. It reminded her of the window box at home, where the vines always climbed too high. Her mother used to scold the plant gently, as if it could hear. "You've grown greedy again," she'd murmur, coughing between each word.
Rhea reached out, fingers careful. She brushed one petal loose.
It fell into her palm like it had always meant to. She curled her fingers around it. Slowly. Quietly.
Something shifted behind her.
She didn't turn. Didn't move. But her skin tightened, like it had caught a draft. Not the wind. Not the music.
Something else.
The air changed.
She let her hand drop back to her side. The petal pressed against her palm like a heartbeat.
Still, she didn't turn.
She stared into the vase. At the flowers. The ones that didn't belong here either. Too modest. Too moonlit. She wondered if anyone else had noticed them—or if they were just as invisible as she was.
Someone's gaze slid over her shoulder.
She felt it. Cold. Heavy. Not curious—direct.
But when she turned—
No one .
Only movement.
A lady in a silver gown adjusting her clutch. A man in a half-mask smiling at someone richer. A waiter folding a napkin.
Just passing moments. Just the surface.
Still, she took a half step back. Her heels clicked softly on the marble, a sound too sharp for a girl trying to disappear.
Her stomach twisted.
She didn't belong here. She never had.
She'd said yes because Mrs. Smith had smiled in that way that wasn't really a question. And because the literacy center needed the goodwill. And because the rent was due. And because the pharmacy bills were rising.
But this wasn't her world . Not these lights. Not these mirrors. Not these invisible glances that passed through her like she was made of air.
She wanted to be home. In her flat that smelled like old bedsheets and burnt rice. With the broken radiator and the draft under the window. With her mother humming tunelessly from the sofa.
She stared at the jasmine again.
The smallest things survive in silence, she thought. The vines at home had no sun, no care, but still they climbed. Still they bloomed.
Still they made it.
"Excuse me," someone said behind her.
She turned.
But the voice wasn't meant for her.
Two men walked past, their shoes shining like glass. One of them looked straight through her. Like a window. As if she wasn't even flesh.
Her throat ached. She looked down at her hand.
The petal was still there.
Crushed slightly now. But still whole. Still white.
A sudden swell of violins echoed from the balcony. Loud. Sharp. Like ice cracking underfoot.
She flinched.
No one else reacted. They were too busy laughing. Smiling. Trading whispers behind manicured hands.
She was the only one who felt it.
And somewhere behind her—
Beyond the glint and the music—
Eyes still watched.
But she didn't see them yet.
❖ ❖ ❖
The room below glittered like a snow globe — all white stone and chandeliers suspended like icicles from a frozen sky.
Dominik Arnaud stood behind the glass.
He did not sit. He never sat at these things. Not unless duty demanded it — a toast, a handshake, a photograph. From this height, he had no need for performance. Here, he could observe without being seen.
The balcony was a private architectural indulgence — enclosed in soundproof glass, lit in cold angles, detached from the world it hovered over. He preferred it. Crowds diluted clarity.
A server passed behind him, balancing a tray of untouched champagne. He didn't turn.
His eyes swept the floor.
A group of young heirs and heiresses broke into laughter near the wine display.
Dominik watched the mirth ripple across their faces. So many masks. So much eagerness to be seen.
Desperation had a shape from above. It always did.
Nobility gathered like seasonal blooms — faces powdered, lips lacquered, jewelry gleaming like ceremonial armor. They sparkled, laughed, leaned into each other in rehearsed angles. Most of them had tried to catch his attention already. A glance, a wave, an "accidental" brush of closeness.
He gave them nothing. Just enough civility to keep the game going.
He knew how to smile without feeling a thing — it came to him like inheritance, passed down through blood as surely as any family name.
A pause.
He caught it before he could explain it.
Not a face — not yet. Just a shape, still amid motion. The crowd shifted like tides, but she stayed.
Near the far edge of the gala floor, beside one of the towering floral arrangements — she stood as if the room were not meant for her.
Not a servant. Not a guest of status either. Dressed simply. No gold, no visible lace. Something about the line of her shoulders — careful, unornamented.
He had noticed prettier women tonight. He couldn't recall their faces now.
His gaze narrowed.
A tall crystal vase stood beside her, lit faintly from beneath. White jasmine poured from its mouth like frosted breath. Every other vase in the room mirrored the same perfection.
Except this one.
A single petal was missing.
A thin, visible gap. Like something had been taken — softly, but with intent.
She hadn't touched the vase — not in the moments he'd been watching. But somehow, the absence of that petal felt deliberate. As if the vacancy had followed her there, subtle and certain.
In a room obsessed with appearance, even a missing petal stood out.
And the girl beside it — she carried that same quiet wrongness.
There was no reason for it. But reason had never mattered to impulse.
Still, he blinked once. Not to clear his vision — to steady it.
"Who is she?"
The voice that left him was quiet. The kind of quiet that drew attention not through volume, but authority.
His aide — older, silent, accustomed to Dominik's economy of words — moved to the glass, followed his line of sight.
"I'm not certain, sir," the man replied after a pause. "Possibly attached to the humanitarian side. There's a minor bookstore tie-in… her name wasn't on the prime guest list."
Dominik said nothing.
She shifted slightly — brushing her hand along the side of her dress. Not for attention. Not to pose. She wasn't performing.
In fact, she was doing the opposite:
trying not to exist at all.
She was none of the types he'd learned to unsee.
That's what made her presence impossible to ignore.
His eyes moved again, briefly, scanning the room once more. The noise resumed. The golden guests, the chatter, the flutes of champagne, the glint of practiced laughter.
But none of it quite filled the space where that one missing petal should've been.
He turned from the glass.
"Have the files ready tomorrow morning," he said flatly, to no one in particular.
"Yes, sir."
He walked out of the viewing enclosure, the sound of the gala swelling faintly behind the glass door.
He passed one of the main floral displays in the corridor — perfect, untouched jasmine.
He didn't stop. But he looked once. And did not look again.