The whispers didn't die down.
Even after the velvet stand was wheeled away, even after the necklace vanished from the stage, heads kept angling in her direction. Isla could hear the little clicks of phones masked by coughs, the hiss of voices not nearly as hushed as people thought they were. That's her—the one he named.
Tyler's grip never loosened. His palm anchored hers, his thumb brushing against her knuckles, but his jaw was locked tight. He looked ready to leap up, to shield her with his body, to call the night off entirely—but this wasn't his arena. Not here, not with royalty and nobles watching. His restraint became its own kind of pressure, tight as a vice.
Isla wished she could curl into the velvet chair, make herself small, unseen. But her body betrayed her, warmth prickling up her throat and across her cheeks. She didn't want this—not the flashes, not the stares, not the way people's curiosity made her feel like she was under glass. And yet... her mind kept circling back to his face. To the smirk he hadn't bothered to hide.
Why smirk at me like that? Why make it so deliberate?
The ballroom air seemed thicker with him in it. Every shift of movement reminded her he was still there. Dorian lounged at his table as though the night had been planned for his amusement alone.
The auctioneer clapped his hands for attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, what an exhilarating moment! Clearly, love and generosity are alive in this room tonight."
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd. He leaned into the microphone, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Why, I daresay there's romance in the air."
Dorian didn't miss a beat. He lifted his wine glass lazily, tilted it toward Isla across the room, and drank.
Cameras swung in an instant, the flutter of flashes bursting like fireworks. Isla's stomach sank. She lowered her gaze, staring hard at the water glass in front of her, wishing she could vanish beneath the table.
Tyler stiffened, his free hand curling into a fist against his thigh. "He's baiting you," he muttered. She could feel the tension vibrating through his arm. "And them. All of them."
But Dorian wasn't baiting—at least not in the way Tyler thought. He didn't look like a man starting a war. He looked like one enjoying a private picnic, unbothered, as though the chaos belonged to him by default.
The auctioneer cleared his throat, working to reel the night back into its rhythm. "Before we close, one final offering. A more... playful prize to end our auction on a light note. A private dinner hosted by the very patron of tonight's gala."
A polite smattering of applause followed.
"Shall we begin at five hundred thousand?"
Bidding started easily, voices rising with cheerful indifference. Five-fifty. Five-seventy. Six hundred. But no one seemed truly invested—the real prize of the night had already passed, and the energy was still tangled around Isla.
Tyler leaned forward, signaling the auctioneer. "Six-fifty."
Isla blinked at him. His expression was firm, set—like this was his chance to plant a flag. To prove something.
The auctioneer nodded, marking it down, and the number inched upward. Seven hundred. Seven-fifty. Eight hundred.
Guests raised their brows politely, sipped their champagne, and returned to their conversations. The spotlight stubbornly refused to shift away from Isla.
Tyler lifted his paddle again, determination etched across his face. But before the auctioneer could even call it, a ripple of motion elsewhere caught the room's attention.
Dorian leaned back in his chair, glass of red in hand. He didn't raise his voice, didn't even bid. Just a quiet word to the server at his side, a faint smile as though the entire auction bored him. And yet, somehow, the subtle movement drew more eyes than Tyler's raised paddle ever had.
The lot closed at two million, met with a hollow clap of applause. Tyler's jaw tightened, his hand curling against his thigh. Isla didn't need to hear the grind of his teeth to know how much it burned him—how much Dorian's effortless gravity swallowed every space he entered, without him even trying.
The host rose then, drawing the crowd's attention with a booming clap. "Friends, thank you for your generosity tonight. Together, we've raised an extraordinary sum for our cause." He raised his glass high. "Let us toast—to charity, and to the spirit of giving!"
Glasses lifted, voices echoed back. But the whispers didn't stop. If anything, they swelled louder, carried on the wave of wine and excitement. Isla caught fragments.
The lady in ivory.
Toast girl.
She's the star of the night.
Her stomach coiled.
And then someone near the front called out—half-joking, half-bold. "Let her have the first dance!"
Laughter scattered across the room, fueled by champagne. But then another voice picked it up. "Yes—the lady in ivory and His Highness!"
The host, ever eager to ride a current, beamed at the suggestion. "A fine idea! Miss Reed, Prince Dorian—won't you do us the honor of opening the floor?"
Isla froze. Her glass clinked too sharply as she set it down. All eyes were already on her, the request turning into expectation, into inevitability.
Tyler's hand closed tight over hers beneath the table, grounding, desperate. His message was clear: Don't.
But across the room, Dorian was already rising. Unhurried, assured, as though he'd planned this exact moment. He smoothed the line of his jacket, crossed the space with elegant strides, and stopped beside her table.
"Allow me to escort her," he said smoothly, offering his arm.
The crowd hummed with approval, a soft chorus of oohs and chuckles.
Isla's heart thundered. Every instinct screamed to refuse. To stay seated, cling to Tyler's hand, let the moment pass. But the room was too full, the spotlight too sharp. She couldn't say no—not without making it worse.
Slowly, hesitantly, she slid her hand from Tyler's and placed it on Dorian's arm. His suit was warm beneath her fingers, the muscle of his arm steady. The cameras exploded instantly, light popping from every angle.
The world blurred. Her own footsteps barely registered as he led her toward the stage. Each flash painted her in fragments—her ivory gown, the curve of her shoulders, the quiet grace of her tied hair—and for the first time, she wasn't just Toast Girl. She was luminous. Poised. Breathtaking.
And he let her be. Dorian didn't hog the stage, didn't pull attention back to himself. He moved like a frame around her, guiding, enhancing, never once letting her stumble.
They reached the platform where the host raised his glass again. The applause swelled like a tide, filling the ballroom until Isla's chest tightened with it.
And then, close enough that only she could hear, Dorian's voice brushed her ear. Smooth. Certain. Dangerous.
"Now you've truly arrived."
Her heart pounded against her ribs, the spotlight burning into her skin. And Isla knew—this night was far from over.