From above, the ballroom looked almost unreal—a sea of gold and shadow, silk skirts sweeping like tides beneath crystal light. Dorian leaned on the gallery's railing, glass cradled in his hand, surveying the quiet theater below. Every smile, every glance—everything meant something here.
Footsteps approached. A shadow slid into view, easy and unhurried. Cael.
He came to rest beside Dorian, one elbow hooked over the balustrade, his suit catching the golden spill of chandelier light.
Dorian's voice came easy, threaded with something quieter beneath. "Seems your guest has company."
Cael didn't flinch. "He hasn't left her side all night. Almost."
Dorian's mouth curved faintly, a sound low in his throat like amusement. "Persistent, isn't he? Always circling back."
Cael took a sip of his drink, shoulders loose. "Noticed that too."
For a moment, silence stretched—smooth, deliberate. Then Dorian spoke again, his tone lighter than before but carrying something beneath. "She didn't wear it, did she?" A pause, then the faintest curve of his mouth. "The gown you gave her."
It wasn't a guess—not really. After that photograph had set the internet spinning with theories, Dorian's curiosity had been piqued just like everyone else's. Enough that he'd asked Cael himself days ago. And Cael, blunt as ever, hadn't denied it.
Now, standing here, Dorian let the words hang between them like a challenge.
Cael didn't bite. "She returned it when I arrived to pick her up." His voice was flat, stripped of everything but fact.
Dorian's gaze lingered on Isla, catching the soft curve of her laugh at something Tyler said. "Pity," he murmured, low and smooth. "Might've suited her."
He straightened, the light sliding across the sharp lines of his face, and set his glass down with quiet finality. "Why don't I pay the famous baker a visit?"
⸻
They'd just finished with the last of his work acquaintances—a pair of executives who laughed like every word might be worth stock. Isla had smiled when needed, nodded at the right beats, and let the conversation skim past her like glass. Wallpaper—that was what she'd promised herself to be tonight. No waves. No sparks. Not here.
The men drifted away, their polished shoes clicking against marble, and for a breath, Isla let out something like relief. Tyler's hand lingered at her waist—warm, steady, claiming—but his smile was easy enough to keep questions at bay.
Everything was going perfectly.
Until the air shifted.
It wasn't loud or sudden, just a change in gravity, like the chandelier light bent for someone else now. Isla felt it before she saw him—before his shadow touched the edge of her dress. When she looked up, he was already there.
Dorian.
He didn't hurry. Didn't need to. The room seemed to open for him, parting in small, unspoken ways. Dark suit, crisp lines, and a presence that carried more weight than the crown he didn't wear tonight. His gaze held hers for a beat—steady, unflinching—before sliding briefly to Tyler.
"Evening," Dorian said. Smooth, like it belonged to the room. "Didn't think I'd see you here."
Isla managed a smile, tight at the edges. "Surprise."
Tyler's hand left her waist long enough to extend toward the prince. "We've met before."
Dorian's brows lifted slightly, genuine confusion threading through the ease of his expression. "Have we?"
Isla stepped in quickly, her tone light, trying to sand down the edges. "This is Tyler," she said. "My boyfriend."
"Boyfriend," Dorian echoed, like he was tasting the word. His gaze held Tyler's for a beat too long before sliding back to Isla. "Congratulations."
Tyler's smile didn't falter, but it sharpened at the edges. "Appreciate that."
"Of course." Dorian's eyes drifted briefly over the glittering room, then settled back on Isla with a look that didn't quite give itself away. "You seem... different."
Isla's throat tightened. "Different how?"
His mouth curved faintly. "Quieter."
"She's been enjoying the evening," Tyler cut in smoothly, his hand finding her waist again, firmer than before. "We were just heading for another drink."
"Perfect timing then." Dorian reached toward a tray as it passed, fingers closing around the stem of a glass with effortless grace. "Allow me."
The next moment unraveled in silence. The tilt was slight—almost nothing—but enough. Crimson slipped down the curve of Isla's gown like a slow spill of dusk.
She froze. For half a breath, the world narrowed to the cold weight of satin clinging to her skin, the sharp scent of wine cutting through the floral hum of the room.
"Oh—" The sound broke from her, soft, strangled. Heat rushed to her face as eyes turned, curiosity sparking like flint in the air.
Tyler's reaction was instant. A low curse under his breath as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, blotting at the fabric with brisk, controlled movements. "It's fine," he said tightly. "We'll fix it."
"My apologies." Dorian's voice was smooth, the kind that could almost make you believe it was an accident. Almost.
"We should call it a night," Tyler said, low but firm.
"You don't have to." Dorian's voice curved through the tension like silk over steel. "Not because of this." He gestured lightly to the ruin of blue and wine, then met Isla's eyes again. "Let me make it right."
"There's no need—" Tyler began, but Dorian was already moving, his refusal polite, absolute.
"Let me," he said, a small crease in his forehead, enough to make one wonder if it had truly been an accident. "I'll feel worse if you go."
A flick of his fingers summoned an attendant, quick and silent at his side. "Take Miss Reed to a room," he instructed, his tone effortless command. "See that she has everything she needs." His gaze swept Isla one last time, lingering—not long enough to be improper, but enough to hum with something unsaid.
And then he looked at Tyler. "She shouldn't have to end her night like this. Neither of you should."
The words landed soft. Almost kind. Almost.