The hallway closed in around her as Isla walked faster, heart hammering, breath shallow. She had bolted so quickly she hadn't even registered which direction she'd gone. Now every gilded sconce and polished stretch of marble looked the same. Her reflection winked back at her in a passing mirror—cheeks flushed, eyes wide with panic. She hardly recognized herself.
Her heels clicked against the floor, sharper than she wanted them to be. The image replayed in her mind on a relentless loop: the woman draped across him, her pale hair falling in loose waves, her lips grazing his skin. And then—his eyes. Calm. Steady. Locked on her, as if nothing about the scene required explaining.
Heat climbed her neck all over again, rising until it stung at her ears.
She took another turn, then another. The ballroom had to be close. But every corridor only seemed to twist her further into the hotel's maze. Opulent, endless, swallowing her whole. She clenched her fists and forced her steps quicker. But with each echo the question gnawed harder at her chest: why was she the one embarrassed when she hadn't done anything wrong?
But the weight in her stomach wouldn't let her go. It wasn't just what she saw—it was his expression when he saw her. Unmoved, unashamed. Like catching her there had been part of some private game.
She rounded another corner—and nearly collided with someone. It was a hotel worker in a crisp uniform, the tray in her hands tilting before she steadied it with practiced ease.
"Sorry," Isla whispered, heat rushing to her face. Her lips parted to ask for help, then closed again, pride clawing up her throat. She'd told herself she wouldn't do this—wouldn't beg directions like some lost tourist.
But the image of Dorian, smirking with a woman draped across his lap, burned hotter than her pride. Embarrassment was louder, heavier, impossible to ignore.
"The ballroom," she forced out, her voice low. "Which way?"
The worker blinked, then nodded toward the corridor. "Straight down, miss. Left at the fountain painting—you'll see the doors."
"Thank you." Isla was already moving, the need to escape the maze stronger than the need to save face.
Her heels carried her swiftly, the directions clear this time. She slipped through a side entrance back into the ballroom.
The air hit her all at once—warm, full of chatter, alive with the crisp ring of crystal flutes and the rise and fall of voices. The auctioneer's call cut above it all, sharp and rhythmic, bouncing numbers across the floor. A few curious eyes flicked her way, but attention swung back quickly to the stage. Relief and humiliation tangled in her chest as she made her way toward Tyler.
He stood when he saw her, worry tightening the lines of his face. His hand caught hers the moment she reached him, drawing her into her seat.
"You alright?" His voice was low, meant only for her. "You were gone a while."
Isla forced a faint smile, smoothing her dress as though it could explain away her nerves. "Got lost."
Tyler didn't look convinced, but he didn't press. He simply kept her hand in his, thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles as the auction rolled on.
Paintings, sculptures, extravagant vacation packages—items paraded across the stage, bids thrown casually like loose change. The crowd's energy swelled and dipped with each round, laughter and applause filling the space. Isla tried to let herself breathe with the rhythm, tried to let her pulse settle. But it didn't last.
The hum of voices dipped as a presence entered the room. Isla didn't need to look to know who it was. But she did anyway.
Dorian.
He entered with the same calm composure she had seen minutes earlier, as though the compromising scene hadn't happened at all. His stride was unhurried, shoulders squared, every line of him assured. He moved toward his seat—one that, whether by coincidence or cruel design, set him at an angle where his gaze swept clearly over her table.
Isla's stomach tightened. She tried to look elsewhere—at the auctioneer, at the guests clinking glasses—but her eyes betrayed her, sliding back until they found him.
And of course, he was already watching.
Her cheeks burned before she could stop them. Why now? Why him? Was she blushing for him? For herself? For walking in where she shouldn't have? She couldn't name it, only feel the flush bloom under her skin, hot and impossible to hide.
His expression didn't change. Only the faintest curve at his mouth—a smirk, shameless, as if her discomfort was entertainment.
Her chest clenched.
"You're sure you're alright?" Tyler's voice cut close, his eyes searching her face.
"Yes," she said quickly, too quickly. She tugged her hand from his and reached for her water glass. "Just warm in here."
He frowned but let it drop, though the weight of his glance lingered.
The auctioneer clapped his hands, the spotlight cutting across the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, our centerpiece for tonight's charity auction..."
A velvet-draped stand was wheeled forward. The cloth pulled back to reveal a necklace that seemed to catch every shard of light in the room. Diamonds spilled in a precise curve, glimmering like frost. Gasps and murmurs rippled across the crowd.
"An exclusive creation by Donatelli himself." The auctioneer announced, his voice with pride. "One-of-a-kind. Tonight, we open at ten million."
Paddles rose almost instantly. "Twelve point five."
"Fifteen million."
"Seventeen million ."
The numbers climbed with practiced ease, champagne voices calling from gilded tables as though they were bidding on trinkets instead of fortunes. Isla forced her eyes on the stage, her pulse steadying with each number called, but the pressure of a gaze across the room burned hotter than the lights.
"Twenty million."
"Twenty five million."
"Thirty million."
The rhythm rolled forward, smooth and unbroken. The auctioneer's excitement swelled with each raise.
"Thirty — do I hear a forty?"
And then, a pause.
A paddle lifted, calm and unhurried. The number spoken was so large it carved the air in half.
"Sixty million."
The auctioneer stumbled mid-sentence. A gasp rippled through the ballroom, sharp as glass shattering. Heads whipped toward the bidder, whispers swelling.
"From His Highness, Prince Dorian," the auctioneer managed, his grin faltering into awe.
The room went still.
But Dorian didn't look at the necklace. He didn't even look at the stage.
His head tilted, just slightly, and his eyes found her across the crowd—steady, unblinking, deliberate.
"For the lady in ivory," he said, his voice carrying, even and clear.
The silence shattered.
Whispers swelled, sharp and uncontainable. Dozens of heads swiveled toward Isla. Cameras flashed—the bright pop of phones, the press snapping shots from every angle.
"That's her—Toast Girl."
"She's with him?"
"The viral one—look at her face—"
Isla's breath caught, the room seeming to close in as whispers swelled. Heat crawled over her skin, her pulse a roar in her ears. She wanted to disappear, to sink beneath the tablecloth and never rise.
Tyler's grip on her hand tightened, fingers digging in like a vice. His body was rigid beside her, protective, tense, though there was nothing he could do—not here, not against the force of that declaration.
Across the room, Dorian leaned back in his chair. Unbothered. Smug. The curve at his mouth deepened just enough to feel like victory.
Isla's heart raced, every camera flash another nail in her composure. Tyler shifted closer, his jaw clenched, but the storm had already broken.
The whispers spread. The flashes sparked again.
And Isla knew, with a sinking weight that hollowed her stomach, that this night wasn't ending here.
It was only just getting started.