The Wilder ballroom buzzed with afterglow; its rhythms softened now by hushed laughter and the scent of night-blooming jasmine drifting through open balconies. The engagement had been declared, the dance concluded… and yet the air still vibrated with possibility.
Parker—still riding the adrenaline of Tessa's romantic power move—stood near the bar, chatting quietly with Zhang Ruoyun about Nyxvare's whereabouts. His eyes were sharp, magnetic, glinting like polished obsidian as he spoke.
That's when Isabella Harrington and Diana made their entrance.
Nobody missed Isabella Harrington and Diana Beaumont gliding out of the side corridor—not the string quartet easing into a smoky tango, not the half-tipsy diplomats trading stock gossip, and definitely not Parker.
They were walking, living temptations—succubi repackaged in couture:
