He pulled back slightly after the whisper, his gaze sweeping over her face as though testing how deeply his words had landed. And then his eyes dropped—lower, softer—settling on the knot that bound her hair.
Before Isla could guess his intention, his hand moved. Fingers brushed lightly at the nape of her neck, deft and unhurried, tugging at the tie until it slipped loose.
Her breath caught. A subtle pull, and the weight of her hair cascaded down, spilling in soft waves over her shoulders. The ballroom seemed to exhale with her, a chorus of gasps rising like smoke.
Flashes went off in a frenzy.
Isla's pulse leapt painfully against her ribs. She hadn't even thought about her hair, how she had bound it back to mute her gown, to dull the edges of herself so no one would notice. Now every strand glowed under the lights, every curve of her ivory gown amplified as though she had stepped out of hiding into some stage she never asked for.
Dorian's lips curved, sly and deliberate, as if he had peeled away her disguise and was presenting the truth of her to the world.
The Cinderella reveal. Except she hadn't asked for it.
Her cheeks burned, her lashes fluttering against the onslaught of cameras. She wanted to cover her face, tuck her hair back up, undo whatever spell he had spun—but Dorian stood at her side, unapologetic, basking in the chaos he had unleashed.
He stepped closer then, and Isla nearly stumbled from the sudden nearness. His hand found her waist, steady, claiming, the warmth of his palm seeping through silk. Her stomach tightened.
He guided her into the first turn of the waltz, and only then, only this close, did she truly see him.
The sharp cut of his suit jacket clung to broad shoulders and a trim waist. No inner shirt softened the lines—just the bare glimpse of chest revealed beneath the dark lapel, skin catching faint glints of the chandeliers. A chain rested there, silver against his skin, glinting with every step.
It was... indecently elegant. A kind of arrogance woven into fabric, as though he'd dared the world to look, and the world had obeyed.
No wonder women fall so easily for him, Isla thought, heat rising up her neck.
Her eyes darted away quickly, but not before his smirk deepened.
"The crowd adores you," he murmured, voice low enough to cut through the music without touching anyone else's ears. "Why do you keep trying to hide?"
Isla tilted her chin up, sarcasm slipping past her restraint. "So you did notice. Thank you, really, for not respecting my wishes of staying low."
"The pleasure is mine." His eyes glimmered. "It's the least I could do as the future heir—to look after my subjects."
She nearly tripped at that, catching herself with a sharp look. "Look after? You've been taunting me all night."
"And you've been amusing me all night."
Her mouth parted, indignation caught between words and disbelief. Before she could marshal her next retort, his smirk shifted, slyer, cutting sideways.
"Though," he added smoothly, "peeping on private moments isn't very polite."
Isla's breath caught mid-beat. "I—what—"
"Earlier." His tone was maddeningly calm, threaded with amusement. "You saw something you weren't supposed to."
Her cheeks burned hot enough to rival the chandeliers. "I wasn't— I didn't mean to—"
He leaned closer, guiding her through the turn as if they weren't discussing something that made her want the ground to swallow her whole. His breath ghosted against her ear.
"Tell me, Miss Reed," he murmured, voice velvet-soft, "did it interest you?"
Her heel nearly caught on the floor. "Y-you're insufferable."
"Perhaps." His mouth curved, not into a grin but something quieter, richer. "But you looked long enough to remember it."
Her glare snapped up to him, flustered and defensive, but the faint gleam in his eyes told her he had already won.
Desperate to reroute the conversation, Isla seized the first distraction that came to mind. Her pulse still hadn't settled from his jab, and she knew if she let him keep steering the conversation, she'd drown.
"You realize what you've done, don't you?"
His brow lifted in curiosity. "I do many things. You'll have to be specific."
"That necklace," she said, almost breathless with disbelief. "Sixty million—on me. You might as well have stamped a headline across my forehead. Do you know what kind of storm you've just set off?"
Dorian's smirk deepened, as though her outrage was applause. "Storms don't frighten me, Miss Reed. I create them." His gaze slid deliberately to the glittering chain at her throat. "Besides... I don't squander. I choose."
A shiver chased her spine. A sixty-million crown around her neck wasn't generosity—it was a stage.
His hand at her waist firmed, pulling her infinitesimally closer. "And unlike Cael..." His voice dipped, silk over steel. "...I don't take no for an answer."
Isla gulped. The closeness between them prickled at her skin, but his words pressed deeper—an unwelcome reminder of why she'd turned down Cael's gift in the first place. Almost without thinking, her gaze swept the room in search of Tyler. She found him exactly where she had left him, his expression unreadable, eyes fixed on her as though he'd caught every second she wished he hadn't.
Dorian noticed. He always noticed.
"I thought I'd never get a moment with my favorite baker," he said lightly, "with your bodyguard always at your side." He added, so casually it felt deliberate. "Forgive me—boyfriend."
She gave him a look, steady and unblinking, the kind that said she wasn't buying it for a second. That little "slip" hadn't been an accident, and he could see she knew it. For a beat, the music seemed to fall away between them, the silence filled only by the curve of his smile.
Dorian, unbothered, swept her gracefully through the next steps, the crowd watching as though the floor belonged to no one else.
The music began its descent, the violins slowing, the final turn of the waltz drawing near.
"Please," Isla muttered under her breath, "don't add to my fame tonight."
His smile was pure sin.
He spun her out and back in, the flourish drawing an audible gasp from the crowd, before bowing low over her hand. His lips brushed the back of her knuckles, the warmth of the contact searing against her skin.
Cameras flashed like fireworks.
Isla tried to pull away, her chest rising and falling too quickly—but his grip lingered, holding her there. He drew her back, pulling her just close enough that the heat of him pressed at the edges of her calm.
And in the sudden hush between notes, his voice dropped—low, and edged with a sincerity he rarely showed.
"You look beautiful, Isla Reed."
The words rooted her in place, burning deeper than the spotlight.
For one breathless moment, there was no crowd, no cameras, no Tyler's furious eyes—only the truth in his tone, and the devastating calm of the man who spoke it.