"She's here," a young waiter whispered, lowering her gaze as she passed.
The sound of Clarissa Steele's heels echoed across the crystal-glass floor — sharp, deliberate, like the ticking of a well-dressed bomb. She didn't rush. She never did. Timing was everything, Clarissa always arrived fashionably late, just long enough for the world to notice her absence… and then tremble at her arrival.
A sea of faces turned.
Whispers followed like smoke.
She was dressed like vengeance incarnate; a sleek black tailored suit that sculpted her body like it was sewn onto her bones, cinched at the waist with a silver serpent brooch. A matching black hat tilted over one eye, concealing and commanding at once. Her heels were dagger-sharp. Her lips, a bold, matte red.
The air shifted with her perfume, musky gardenia and ash. And just like that, the Thornfield ballroom forgot its chandelier sparkle and three-hundred-dollar champagne.
Men straightened their jackets. Women looked down at their dresses, suddenly unsure. A few guests shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Her presence didn't just command attention, it exposed the insecurities of everyone around her.
She felt it all. The stares. The intimidation. The envy wrapped in politeness.
And it pleased her. Clarissa's lips curled into a barely-there smirk as she passed. Power had a scent, and tonight, it wore her name.
"Miss Steele," said a familiar voice, low and respectful.
Butler Moreaux. Old and Loyal to the Thornefield family, one of the few who still bowed out of reverence and not performance.
"Moreaux," she replied softly, her voice smooth as cashmere. A single nod from her was worth more than applause.
He led her to the VIP table near the golden stage.
"Thank you."
She sat, every motion deliberate, legs crossed in quiet defiance. Attention was needed, not demanded . It gravitated toward her. Even the host flustered mid-speech and found himself turning.
"Ahem," he cleared his throat, eyes glancing her way. "Ladies and gentlemen, it seems we have the honor of hosting one of the city's finest. Please welcome, the one and only... Miss Clarissa Steele."
Applause. Not thunderous-controlled. People clapped because it was expected, not because they wanted to.
Some murmured.
Some admired.
Some swallowed their bitterness in silence.
Clarissa gave a small wave, hand barely lifting. Poised, regal, untouchable. A marble goddess sculpted in stilettos. Inside, she could already predict the conversations:
"She hasn't aged a day."
"I heard she bought out her father's last rival."
"Steel Rose? More like the Ice Queen."
"We stand no chance where she is."
She sipped her wine, her expression unreadable. Even now, she hated these events. They were theaters. Glass smiles. Forced laughter. The same questions, the same praise.
But appearances were everything. And Clarissa had learned long ago that vulnerability was not an option. Across the room, her gaze landed on him.
Sebastian.
Laughing, glass raised, arm draped casually around a blonde. His smile was charming. The same smile he wore at nineteen —
Her jaw tensed. Her fingers, wrapped around the wine glass, twitched. Just slightly. She forced herself to inhale, slow and steady, her mask hardening again.
He hadn't changed.
And neither had she. Their eyes met.His smile didn't falter.Neither did hers. She gave him a nod, polite, empty. A mirror of civility. A language they both had mastered. Only she knew the words underneath:
You know what you did.
I know what I became because of it.
She turned away before her thoughts spiraled. Not here. Not tonight. Never
A man brushed past her chair, lightly grazing her shoulder. She flinched — barely. Her posture didn't change, but her breath caught for a second too long. Her hand tightened around the stem of her glass.
It was always the same.Unwanted touches.Sudden closeness. Triggers buried beneath perfect skin.
She blinked, smiled, sipped.
Every step, every glance, every sip of wine was calculated. A dance of perfection choreographed through pain. They called her the Steel Rose. Delicate in form, deadly in essence.
They feared her.
But no one truly knew her.And that's how she survived.
As the gala wore on, lights glittering, champagne pouring, violins crying softly in the background. Clarissa excused herself with a ghost of a smile. She walked down the gilded hallway, heels silent now on Persian rugs. The laughter behind her dimmed into memory.
She stepped into the powder room, locked the door, and faced the mirror.
For a long moment, she simply looked at herself. Not the version everyone knew — not Miss Steele, not the Ice Queen, not the Steel Rose.
Just a girl with tired eyes and a too-perfect face.
"If I crack, I shatter," she whispered.
Her breath fogged the glass.
"Be strong, Clarissa!"
She let out a slow, measured breath.
Controlled. The mask slid back into place. It was time for business. Clarissa stepped out of the powder room, chin high. She spotted the Thornfield family gathered near the champagne fountain. A smile curved her lips practiced and sharp. She would offer polite greetings, close the deal, and leave before the night dragged on.
But just as she approached—
The ballroom doors creaked open.
Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-sentence. The orchestra missed a note.
Everyone stared toward the entrance. The echo of footsteps followed...slow, deliberate, unmistakably male.
Anticipation rippled through the air.
A tall silhouette emerged, framed by golden light. Each step brought him closer, until he passed through the doors.
Dressed in a black tuxedo, with hair curled and styled to sin, the stranger moved like power incarnate. He didn't smile. He didn't falter.
He didn't need to. Even Clarissa's breath caught — just for a moment. Rage flickered inside her like a dying star. Who was this man?
She didn't recognize him. Hadn't heard of him. And yet… the room bent around him like gravity.
The attention — her attention shifted.
And then his gaze locked with hers. He smiled, slow and deliberate, like he knew something she didn't.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he spoke—
"Found you."