Lyra
The dinner was everything I expected and nothing like I'd imagined.
The grand hall was bathed in golden light, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling like frozen stars, casting their glow on guests draped in silks and velvet. The air was thick with the smell of expensive wine and perfumed secrets, each smile a calculated move, each laugh a whisper of something more.
But it was the moment I stepped inside that everything seemed to freeze.
I'd been prepared to hate this. To loathe every minute of it. The perfect facades, the pretentious airs, the plotting beneath every conversation. But nothing prepared me for him.
Tristan Williams.
He stood near the far end of the room, his presence a dark pulse, a shadow in a sea of gold. He was taller than I expected, though that wasn't what caught my attention. It was the way the room seemed to bend around him, as if reality itself bowed in his direction. He was dressed in deep, midnight blue—no surprise, considering the House of Williams was known for its understated elegance. His clothes didn't shimmer, but the cut of them, the quality, screamed power, restraint, and something darker underneath.
But it wasn't his clothes, nor his position, that made him stand out. It was his eyes. I couldn't stop myself from staring. They were sharp—no, not sharp. Clinical. Cold, precise. Like he was dissecting the world around him, sizing it up, seeing every flaw, every weakness.
And then, our gazes met. His eyes didn't flicker, didn't soften. There was no recognition, no warmth, no malice. Just… nothing. But even that nothing held more weight than anything I'd ever felt before.
"Lyra," my father's voice broke the spell, sharp, urgent. "Come."
I turned my attention back to him, but Tristan's gaze lingered. It was a challenge, unspoken, but unmistakable.
I walked towards the table where my father stood, my heels clicking against the polished floor. Each step felt like a drumbeat in the distance, echoing louder and louder, a reminder that everything was about to change.
As I reached my father's side, I could feel Tristan's gaze like a weight, a pressure against my skin. The entire room seemed to hold its breath as my father turned to the man beside me.
"Tristan," my father said, his voice a bit too cold, a bit too formal. "You know Lyra."
I didn't look at Tristan. Didn't acknowledge him. I simply nodded, my face set in its usual mask of indifference.
"I do," Tristan replied, his voice smooth, too smooth. He spoke like someone who knew exactly what to say to get under your skin.
The words felt like a warning, but I didn't flinch.
"Lyra, meet Tristan Williams, heir to House Williams," my father continued, his eyes never leaving me, a silent command in his gaze. "Tristan, Lyra Michelson, heir to House Michelson."
I was barely listening now, my attention focused solely on the man standing across from me. His aura was unsettling, as if he was a predator, too aware of his own power. He didn't make a move, didn't offer a hand. It was as if he was waiting for me to break, to give in.
I wasn't going to.
"Well, then," my father said, clapping his hands together. "Shall we sit?"
I took my seat, forcing my hands to steady, my heart to quiet. I could feel Tristan's eyes on me the entire time. The weight of them was unbearable.
But then, just as I settled into my chair, he spoke. A low murmur, almost a whisper, just enough to make me lean in.
"You don't look thrilled to be here."
I turned to him, a flash of defiance rising in my chest. "You're a little late to the party."
He tilted his head, studying me with a calm, calculating expression. "It's not often someone gets to choose their prison, Lyra."
The words hit me harder than I expected. I didn't want him to get under my skin. I didn't want to care.
But I did.
I leaned forward slightly, matching his cold gaze. "You don't know anything about me."
"Maybe not," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "But I know exactly who you're going to be."
My stomach churned, and for a moment, I thought I might lose control. But I didn't. Instead, I leaned back in my chair, eyes never leaving his. He could think he knew me. He could try to play this game. But in the end, it wouldn't matter.
Because, despite what he might believe, I wasn't his to claim.