The door on Roman's side clicked softly as the valet stepped forward, bowing with instinctive respect before pulling it open. The hush of the crowd outside deepened.
For a moment, only the warm hum of the luxury engine lingered in the night air.
Then, slowly, the world seemed to tilt as the first polished step emerged.
Roman's shoes touched the ground first—black leather, immaculate, burnished until they reflected the glittering floodlights and camera flashes like a sheet of glass.
The gloss was not the ordinary polish of a common shoe, but the kind that declared wealth, time, and careful preparation.
Each line of stitching was precise, elegant, a craftsman's pride under his measured stride.
The next sight that slipped into view was his hand.
A broad palm, veins sculpted faintly beneath pale skin, fingers long and strong, with nails trimmed to perfection.
The wrist was crowned by the faint shimmer of cufflinks, their silver surface catching light like quicksilver.
