The group circled loosely near the marble balustrade that bordered the upper gallery—an elegant vantage point overlooking the golden sea of guests below. Champagne flutes clinked lightly against cut crystal. The string quartet began another piece, this one a haunting cello-led rendition that curled around the chandeliers like smoke.
Aldrin leaned against the stone ledge with casual ease, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his drink. His black suit, pristine and understated, drank in the light like ink—its only flourish a single cufflink that caught the glow when he lifted his glass.
Isabella nudged Ainsworth with her shoulder. "He's late, disappears for half the night, and still pulls focus like gravity with a bank account."
Ainsworth chuckled. "Please. He could show up in a paper bag and people would still find a way to write poetry about it."
"I'm right here," Aldrin muttered dryly, without glancing at either of them.
Marek smirked. "Yes, but are you? You walked in like a shadow someone forgot to lock the door on."
Isabella tilted her head, watching Ranya from across the room. "You've got a fan, by the way."
Aldrin didn't move, but his brows lifted a fraction. "I've got a lot of fans."
"This one's wearing a six-figure gown and enough confidence to start a coup," Marek added. "Princess Ranya. She's got her eyes on you."
"She's just curious about the art," Aldrin said, sipping slowly.
"Uh-huh," Isabella said dryly. "That would explain the way she keeps looking at you like you're a limited-edition piece she wants to hang in her personal collection."
Ainsworth squinted playfully toward the crowd. "She's not subtle about it either. That's the third time."
"Fourth," Isabella corrected.
Aldrin glanced once, fleetingly, across the room. Ranya was standing beside a bronze sculpture of a phoenix, her frame still and poised—yet her gaze, sharp as a spearhead, flicked toward him the moment his eyes landed on her.
They held the stare for a heartbeat. Two. Then three.
She smiled.
Not flirty. Not coy.
A challenge.
Aldrin returned the look with the hint of a nod, then looked away. "She's bored."
"Oh no," Marek grinned. "She's hunting. There's a difference."
Ainsworth raised a brow. "You planning to let her catch you?"
Aldrin exhaled a low breath of amusement. "If she knew what I was, she'd drop the chase."
"Would she?" Isabella asked. "Or would she just want to know more?"
His eyes flicked to Iris then. Quietly. Almost imperceptibly. She hadn't spoken since he joined them, hadn't even acknowledged his presence beyond a nod. She was engaged in some surface conversation with a passing guest, her face calm—but her posture had the tension of a bow drawn halfway.
He knew her well enough to read it.
The measured silence. The cool restraint. The refusal to play a game she didn't understand the rules of—yet.
Isabella caught the glance.
"She's trying not to feel it," she said under her breath.
"Feel what?" Aldrin asked, tone level.
"Whatever it is you've become when she wasn't looking."
He didn't respond.
Instead, he turned back to the group and casually dropped the hand from his pocket, letting his fingers graze the marble edge. There was a stillness to him now, the kind that signaled calculation. Not coldness—but caution. The kind of man who had built walls not to protect himself, but to protect others from what lay behind them.
"Do you like her?" Marek asked suddenly, too low for anyone else to hear.
Aldrin arched a brow, his voice smooth. "I don't dislike her."
"Not what I asked."
"She's intriguing," Aldrin admitted. "Sharp. Measured."
"And Iris?"
Aldrin said nothing for a while. Then:
"She's the only one who makes me forget the rules."
Ainsworth let out a low whistle. "We should probably be worried."
Isabella rolled her eyes. "We've been worried."
Marek lifted his glass. "To the slow fall."
Ranya's gaze still lingered from across the room, now tinted with something new.
Possession?
Intrigue?
Or just the thrill of competition?
And Iris… Iris didn't look at him at all.
But her fingers were wound tighter around her champagne stem, and her jaw was clenched in a way only Aldrin would ever notice.
The storm hadn't arrived yet.
But the air was charged. Heavy. Waiting.
And beneath the crystal chandeliers and soft cello notes, the game had already begun.
The gala had bloomed into full grandeur—wine poured like whispers, laughter hung from golden chandeliers, and violins hummed like they'd been tuned to the sound of secrets. But even in all its splendor, the night stilled as Aldrin stepped away from the polished circle of his usual suspects—Marek, Ainsworth, advisors draped in wealth and weight—and made his way through the murmuring crowd.
All noise softened as his gaze anchored to one thing only.
Iris.
She stood near a pillar dusted with white and gold leaf, half-bathed in soft amber light, like a portrait waiting to be framed. The emerald green of her gown curved like ivy over her hips, hugging her hourglass form, dipping just enough to hint at the lines of her collarbone. The silk shimmered as she moved, a gentle sway that promised softness and storm alike. Her curls, swept back in a careless updo, bore the kind of imperfection that made beauty feel intimate. Real.
And Aldrin? For all his control, all his shadows and stature—he forgot his next breath.
"I thought I'd at least get a hello," he said when he was close enough, voice low and intimate—meant only for her.
Iris glanced sideways, cool and unreadable. "You were… occupied."
His eyes softened, warmth cracking through the still mask he wore in public. "Still doesn't mean I didn't notice you the second I walked in."
Her breath caught, sharp and annoying, and real. "You're good with words," she said, voice careful. "Too good."
"I'm better with intentions."
That made her pause.
The space between them felt charged—not loud, not explosive. No, this was the kind of tension that brewed slow. The kind that crept beneath skin and bone and sat in your bloodstream like a hum.
"So," she said eventually, folding her arms just enough to feel a little safe, "is this where you charm me back into forgetting I'm supposed to be mad at you?"
Aldrin's mouth curved into something barely a smile—more like the memory of one. "No. This is where I remind you that even in rooms full of art, royalty, and power... you're still the only one I look for."
She turned her full gaze on him then, and something inside her shifted. A fracture in the neatly ordered doubt she'd been nursing. The feelings weren't gone. They'd just been waiting.
"I don't know what this is, Aldrin," she whispered, something raw pulling at the edge of her voice. "I don't know if I'm drawn to you, or to the moments we've survived together. I don't know if it's real… or if it's just the intensity of it all."
His reply didn't come quickly. He studied her—not like a man analyzing, but like someone memorizing.
"Maybe it doesn't matter yet," he finally said. "Maybe we just start with the truth that you feel something."
Iris looked down, blinking too fast. Her throat tightened with something unspoken, something afraid.
And then the music shifted.
The string quartet dipped into a slower rhythm, deeper, like velvet being pulled through candlelight. The crowd turned toward the floor. The lights adjusted. The moment began to stretch itself into something ceremonial.
And from the sea of nobility and political glitz, she arrived.
Princess Ranya. Draped in deep navy, her form poured like midnight silk—her figure tall, slender, poised like a blade. Hair pulled into an ornate twist, neckline structured and sharp. Her beauty was commanding, cultivated. A different kind of elegance—cold, precise, practiced.
And her eyes?
Fixed on Aldrin.
She approached with regal ease, every step a calculated note in a larger song. She didn't spare Iris a glance—not out of disrespect, but because she had already dismissed her.
"Chairman," she said, voice touched with an exotic accent, all liquid vowels and hidden steel. "May I have the first dance?"
Aldrin turned to her, then—almost imperceptibly—back to Iris.
That pause.
That breath of hesitation.
Everything inside Iris squeezed. She didn't move. Didn't breathe. And though her face remained unreadable, her heart pounded so loud she thought surely he could hear it.
Aldrin looked at her like a man asking permission without speaking.
She said nothing.
And so, with a slight nod, he turned and offered his hand to Ranya. "It would be an honor."
The princess's gloved hand slid into his with elegance, and together they walked onto the floor.
And Iris?
She watched.
The song began, low and lingering—each note strung like pearls. Aldrin placed a hand at the princess's waist, the other holding her hand just so, and they began to move. Perfect rhythm. Perfect spacing. An image of unity and power.
Gasps and camera flashes dotted the edges of the ballroom.
"Iris…" Isabella's voice whispered, breaking through her trance.
"I'm fine," Iris said automatically, even though her chest felt hollow. "It's just a dance."
But it wasn't.
It never was.
Isabella studied her friend's expression and gently touched her arm. "He dances with royalty… but he looks at you like he's lost when you're not near."
"I don't know what he feels."
"You don't need to," Isabella said. "Tonight isn't about finding answers. It's about confirming what's already begun."
And still, Iris watched.
Not with bitterness.
Not even with jealousy.
But with the aching clarity of a woman beginning to understand that her heart was no longer hers to control.
Aldrin's eyes flicked toward her once.
Just once.
And that glance said everything the dance could not.