Still slightly breathless from their intense dance, Luna and the man stepped away from the dance floor, laughing like accomplices to some mischief at a royal ball.
The side lounge welcomed them with luxurious sofas, gentle air conditioning, and sophisticated ambient music—electronic jazz with French notes.
Victória, Nikoly, and Lumine were already there, recovering from the dance floor with fresh drinks in hand.
The moment they saw Luna approaching with the mysterious man beside her, their eyes lit up.
"Look who survived dancing with our blue storm," Victória said, laughing.
"Or did he survive her?" Lumine murmured enigmatically.
"Was there intense eye contact?" Nikoly asked, as if filling out a spy mission report.
Luna rolled her eyes gracefully. "Girls, this is... hmm..."
She turned to him with a teasing smile. "What was your name again, mysterious majesty?"
The man, still charming, responded with a slight nod. "Callen."
Luna completed the introduction. "This is Callen. Dances well. Handles jokes. And didn't try to take me to a hotel with bad intentions."
She laughed and winked at him.
The three friends raised their eyebrows, now clearly curious.
But it was the Prince who went on alert.
The moment he heard the women's last names, his strategic brain sounded an internal alarm:
"Victória Lancaster...
Nikoly Hoshinami...
Lumine Edelweiss..."
Three families with global influence.
Finance, technology, media, cultural politics.
And Luna... was with them. Naturally. As if she always belonged there.
This only deepened the mystery.
Before he could ask more questions, a new group entered the lounge.
Six stunning women dressed in metallic tones and shimmering silk.
Custom-designed heels, flawless makeup, imported perfumes that invaded the air like elite troops.
At the center of the group stood their leader: Amara.
Daughter of an emerging Euro-Arab dynasty.
Global influencer. Businesswoman. Socialite.
And clearly with her eyes locked on Callen.
She walked like someone invading territory with armed diplomacy.
Stopped before the group.
Offered a social smile.
"Good evening. I couldn't help but notice this... impressive table."
Her attention was 90% on Callen, 10% on the others.
Maybe 1% on Luna, and that 1% was already assessing whether her dress was from the latest collection.
Victória, Nikoly, and Lumine responded with subtle, polite nods.
But no one said "have a seat."
Amara, ignoring the lack of invitation, kept her gaze on the man. "I'm Amara von Lysenne. And you must be..."
Callen replied neutrally. "Callen."
"Callen," she repeated, as if savoring it. "Different. Mysterious. I like that."
Luna, standing beside him with a fresh drink, simply observed.
Then... smiled.
Raised her glass, looked at Callen, and said with acid sweetness:
"Wow... you must be irresistible. You even attract female attack squads."
Callen coughed, both embarrassed and amused.
The three friends stifled their laughter.
Amara maintained her smile.
But a spark of tension now flickered in her eyes.
Luna rested her elbow on Callen's shoulder in a gesture half-possessive, half-playful, adding:
"Careful, 'Callen.' If you keep this up, I'll have to put you on a leash."
She laughed, taking a sip immediately after.
Callen just smiled.
The golden glass in Amara's hands shimmered.
"Callen..." she said, placing the name on her lips like a newly discovered jewel.
"We may not know each other, but I sense we have much in common."
Callen smiled politely.
But his attention wavered...
Between Amara's elegant pose and Luna's silver eyes as she now sat sideways like a bored goddess on a sofa-throne.
Amara continued her verbal parade.
"My family is negotiating with the D'Anjou group, which has ventures in Zurich and Monaco... you've surely heard of them."
She smiled. "Besides, you seem to belong to that circle. Princes with steel eyes aren't common among commoners."
It was a compliment... and a test.
Callen averted his gaze briefly.
But before he could respond, Luna entered the scene.
She stretched slowly and rested her head on Callen's shoulder with a long, melodic sigh:
"Ughhh, I'm so tired of politics." Then she looked straight at Amara.
"Does your D'Anjou group have a decent buffet or do they also serve lukewarm champagne?"
Amara blinked—just once.
But her diplomatic mask trembled half a millimeter.
Callen coughed lightly, surprised.
And Luna continued, laughing softly, clearly drunk and deliciously disrespectful toward high-society rituals:
"Mr. Callen here is already in use, darling."
She tapped his chest lightly with her manicured nail.
"I found him first. And he dances well. Spins nicely. Handles my craziness. Perfect for riding in the glove compartment."
The three friends watched silently, eyes wide with amusement.
Victória whispered. "My God. She'll start a clan war and laugh about it later."
Nikoly murmured. "I'm studying her as a thesis. Anthropology of Chaos in High Heels."
Lumine smiled calmly like a villain who already knew the ending.
"Amara lost the battle at Luna's second sip."
Amara, meanwhile, maintained her smile.
But it was a stiff, forcibly polite smile.
"I assume you're joking..." She let out a brief, dry laugh.
"You seem... spirited."
Luna lifted her head from Callen's shoulder and crossed her legs slowly, locking eyes with Amara like someone appraising a display model.
"Amara, right?" She raised her glass.
"You've got presence. I'll give you that. But Callen here is already my dance partner, my sofa support, and... who knows... my getaway driver if this party gets boring."
Callen smiled against his will.
The tension was delicious.
Amara tilted her head, finally regarding Luna more seriously.
"And you are...?"
"A tourist," Luna replied, taking a sip.
"A tourist... from where?"
Luna looked at the ceiling thoughtfully.
"From the unknown. From chaos. From the mess that wears heels. Pick your favorite destination."
Amara finally stopped smiling.
For two seconds.
Then resumed her noble expression.
Gave a subtle, cold nod, as if dismissing a provocation beneath her.
"This was... curious."
And she turned to leave, her group of silent beauties trailing like a humiliated entourage.
Once Amara was out of earshot, Luna exhaled with a whistle.
"That one hates me more than glitter hates vacuum cleaners."
Callen laughed—loudly, genuinely. A light, unguarded laugh.
"You really fear no one, do you?"
Luna winked. "Me? I fear serious things. Like bills. Caterpillars. Awkward silences... and stairs in heels. But princesses trying political charm on my drunk flirting? That's just unfair."
The three friends burst into laughter.
The Prince, now clearly enchanted, looked at her like someone witnessing a diamond hurricane dancing among mortals.
The night continued—drunk, charming, and increasingly dangerously fun.
Luna, cheeks flushed, hair slightly disheveled, mischievous smile at its peak, tapped her empty glass on the crystal table.
"Waiter! Another one of these... more glitter, less ice, please!"
The waiter nodded as if facing a goddess craving lunar nectar.
She then turned to Callen and pointed to the wide sofa.
"Come, sit here with me. I won't let my... runaway dancer... escape so easily."
Callen hesitated.
His noble blood screamed for restraint, composure, perhaps an air chamber to organize his thoughts.
But Luna looked at him like a spoiled child eyeing a bunny.
He tried to maintain his posture.
"I think it's best not. You're already... quite lively."
She pouted. "Pleeease, Callen..."
And clasped her hands as if casting a drunk-princess spell.
Instant defeat.
Inevitable.
Callen exhaled, smiling sideways, and sat on the sofa.
The next second, Luna sat on his lap.
Not with lust.
But like someone who'd found the planet's most comfortable seat and decided to nest like a cat.
Callen froze.
One arm tried to maintain respectful distance.
The other floated uncertainly.
"L-Luna... this... isn't appropriate."
She turned in his lap, gazing at him with half-lidded silver eyes.
"I stopped being appropriate after the second glass, Your Majesty."
And she rested her head on his shoulder with a satisfied sigh.
The three friends across from them erupted in silent laughter.
Victória propped her chin on her hand.
"So good to see royalty being domesticated live."
Nikoly, ever analytical, said.
"We should sell tickets."
Lumine simply looked at Matthew with that knowing air.
"Matthew Solarius, you're surrounded. Accept it."
Luna lifted her head from his shoulder, eyebrows raised.
"...Matthew what?"
Matthew closed his eyes slowly, accepting imminent social death.
"...Matthew Solarius. Crown Prince of the Phoenix Kingdom."
Luna blinked.
"You're WHAT? An actual PRINCE??"
"...I am."
"...And you told me your name was Callen??"
Matthew tried to explain, but Luna placed a finger on his lips like a slightly altered rom-com heroine:
"Shhh... no. Too late now. Now you listen."
She straightened on his lap, pointing theatrically.
"You danced with me... let me ride you like a throne... and lied about your name? What ELSE is a lie? Can you actually dance? Are you even real? Is this Narnia???"
The friends lost it.
Matthew sighed, utterly defeated.
"I... use that name at parties to avoid attention. Security, protocol, all that."
"Uh-huh," Luna said, arms crossed on his lap.
"And how many other drunk girls fell for you using that trick, huh, Matthew Solarius of Phoenix?"
"None," he answered honestly.
"You're the first."
Luna froze for half a second.
Then... smiled.
"Good answer, Your Majesty. Very good."
She planted a loud kiss on his cheek and snuggled against him again, hugging the prince like a royal pillow.