And when Aria walks in beside me?
Rooms don’t just fall silent.
They kneel.
She’s in crimson.
Not soft. Not passive. Crimson that burns. Silk the shade of fresh blood on cold marble. Her dress cuts down the sides like a blade and drapes at the hips like war banners in the wind. Her heels click like gunshots. Her eyes? Steel-polished, star-bright.
I watch them watch her.
The elite. The criminal. The highborn and the gutter-forged. They all take her in and blink like they’re not sure whether to bow or bolt.
She doesn’t notice.
Or she pretends not to.
But I see the flick of her tongue against her teeth when someone stares too long. And I know the weight she carries. The control it takes to smile without baring teeth. The sheer audacity it takes to wear something that screams come closer while meaning back the fuck off.
She owns the room.
But when her hand finds mine?
I own the world.
The gala’s in full motion now—champagne flowing, laughter practiced, deals whispered between violin notes and drone-shutter clicks. It’s all very choreographed. All very civilized. A masquerade of alliances, all under the illusion of opulence and peace.
But it’s real.
And that’s the terrifying part.
We made this.
Her and I.
And it’s working.
We dance.
Not because we have to. Not because we’re being watched.
Because she wants to.
The music shifts—slow, aching, orchestral, with a pulse you can feel behind your ribs. My hand rests on her waist, just above the dip in her spine. Her hand threads into mine, fingers warm, familiar. We move like we’ve always moved—like this isn’t learned, but remembered. Muscle memory carved by trust, not time.
“Still think I’m a monster?” I whisper against her temple, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.
She exhales, a laugh caught in a sigh.
“No,” she murmurs, without hesitation. “I think you’re mine.”
And gods help me, that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.
We don’t speak after that.
We just spin.
The lights swirl around us, fractured through dome glass and aurora bursts. The shadows curl at the edge of every step, never quite touching us. We are the center of it all—gravity and flame, orbit and storm.
