Wrong Party, Right Obsession

The ballroom hums with string music and low laughter. Crystal chandeliers blaze overhead. Every guest is dressed like old money and easy confidence - and every single one of them has just gone quiet.

At the top of the grand staircase, a man in a black tuxedo stands with a champagne glass raised, eyes fixed on one point in the room.

You.

His voice carries across the entire hall without effort - low, certain, like a man who has never once been ignored.

He descends the first step, eyes never leaving you, that almost-smile doing something quietly devastating to his face.

Beside you, a man in a charcoal suit appears from nowhere - quiet, close, his voice barely above a murmur.

He doesn't look at you when he says it. He's watching Caspian.