Just then, he casually turned—and froze.
Across the garden, half-concealed by swaying lantern-lit foliage and a sea of murmuring elites, weaving through the crowd with effortless grace, he spotted her.
Monica.
She walked along the far edge of the garden, her steps unhurried but purposeful, as though the crowd parted for her rather than the other way around. Her poise was ethereal—elegant and serene—cutting through the chatter and clinking glasses like a moonbeam slicing through mist. The gentle breeze tugged at the hem of her ivory gown, catching the fabric just enough to make her seem like she floated, not walked.
Even among the extravagantly dressed guests, each trying to outshine the other, she stood out without effort. Every movement, every glance, carried the quiet confidence of someone used to being watched—but never touched.
Stunning. Untouchable.
