The entrance flared.
Connor arrived like he owned the goddamn floor.
The marble didn't catch his footsteps so much as approve of them, midnight shoes on ash-white stone, his dark green suit cutting through the ballroom like pine through frost. There was no announcement, no formal introduction, just the slow sweep of his stride as the press of guests parted instinctively.
Green eyes sharp, a grin lazy, and a posture loose enough to suggest amusement and dangerous enough to suggest he could cause a scandal just for sport, Connor Woods paused at the threshold with one hand tucked casually in his pocket and the other flicking a crimson handkerchief once before stuffing it back.
"I'm late," he said to no one in particular, "but beautiful enough to be forgiven."
And behind him, silent as a thought, smooth as distilled calm, Uno stepped into view.
