The grand banquet hall glittered like a crown under a thousand golden chandeliers. Walls of glistening white marble stretched into the heavens, adorned with red and gold drapes that danced gently with the cool breeze of the silent, concealed air conditioners. Ornate columns stood tall like ancient guardians, and the air was perfumed with hints of rose, vanilla, and wealth. Every corner sparkled with polished elegance. The occasion was nothing short of a royal affair.
Isabella stood beside Emily as they entered the venue, the massive doors closing behind them. Each step they took echoed with the soft click of heels on marble, and all around them, people turned. Heads tilted. Eyes lingered. Murmurs followed. The dazzling lights caught the delicate shimmer of Isabella's pale champagne gown, sculpted to kiss her curves and flow with her every motion. Her brown hair fell in soft, styled waves that framed her impossibly delicate features, and the red gloss on her full lips glimmered beneath the chandeliers.
Emily, though stunning in a sleek emerald dress, noticed the way people looked at Isabella. Even she had to admit — her friend was ethereal.
Peter, tall and elegant in his wine-red tuxedo, greeted them with the warmest of smiles. "You both look incredible," he said, but his eyes lingered a second longer on Isabella.
"Thank you," Emily beamed, looping her arm with Isabella's. "It's been years, Peter."
"It has," he agreed, giving her a friendly side hug. Then he turned to Isabella. "And you must be the famous best friend. Emily's mentioned you in every memory she's ever told me."
Isabella chuckled politely. "I hope only the good ones."
Peter laughed. "The best. Come, your seats are reserved."
They followed him past long tables draped in velvet cloths, past guests in diamonds and designer tuxedos, and into a section just close enough to the stage for a decent view, but distant enough to breathe. Soft music played in the background, a classical melody that threaded through the laughter and clinking of wine glasses. Servers moved like ghosts, elegant and silent, offering gold-rimmed trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne.
An hour passed.
Isabella fidgeted slightly. Her hands rested on her lap, fingers intertwined. People still stared. They whispered behind flutes of champagne and fans of lace. Their eyes weren't cruel — just curious — but it made her uneasy.
"I need to leave this spot," she leaned towards Emily, her voice low and tired. "Everyone's staring like I'm the bride of this entire occasion."
Emily frowned. "I noticed. You've stolen the spotlight."
"I didn't mean to," Isabella muttered, looking around, a little flushed.
Emily glanced towards Peter and leaned in to whisper something into his ear. He nodded without question and waved discreetly at a tall man nearby. Moments later, they were being guided toward a private elevator at the far corner of the hall, guarded by two sharply dressed men in black suits.
"Just a quiet place," Peter said. "You both need it."
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and the three of them stepped inside. The ride upward was smooth and fast. As the doors opened, they were met with a lavish hallway lined with golden sconces and rich, royal red carpeting. Peter led them to a double-door suite near the end of the corridor.
"This is one of the guest rooms," he said, pulling the doors open.
Isabella paused in the doorway.
The room was larger than Emily's entire apartment. A massive chandelier hung above, casting warm light on velvet couches and a crystal glass table. One entire wall was glass — a window that stretched across, giving a breathtaking view of the starry sky and glittering city below. The carpet was white, soft beneath their heels. The room exhaled luxury.
"Wow," Emily breathed. "This is... insane."
"Make yourselves comfortable," Peter said. "I'll be downstairs if you need me."
Isabella nodded and smiled slightly. As soon as he left, she moved toward the bathroom door across the suite, her chest rising and falling with every breath. "I need a moment."
"I'll be here," Emily said softly, already flopping onto one of the giant cushions.
Isabella entered the bathroom.
She turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face. She looked up into the mirror, staring at her reflection, her lips parting as she whispered, "Calm down, Isabella... it's just a party..."
But then — a shadow.
Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.
A tall, dark figure loomed behind her in the mirror. Not a ghost. Not an illusion. A man. A man standing so close that she could feel the chill of his presence brushing against her back. Her breath caught in her throat. Slowly — very slowly — she turned around.
Azrael.
The man from the club.
The stranger who saved her.
He was standing in the doorway, one hand in the pocket of his long black coat. His bare chest peeked beneath the open coat, his skin smooth, pale and flawless. His eagle tattoo spanned across his chest — regal and fierce — while the edges of a dragon's tail curled over his shoulder and disappeared behind his back.
His hair was dark and curly, slightly messy, and his brows — thick, commanding — framed those eyes.
Those eyes.
Silver, cold, and mesmerizing. The kind of eyes that made time hesitate.
Isabella's mouth opened slightly in disbelief.
"You," she whispered.
Azrael took a step forward, and the light shifted across his features. "You look better tonight," he said in that same deep, velvet voice that had haunted her thoughts since the night before.
She blinked. "What... What are you doing here?"
He looked at her for a long second before replying, "This is my room."
"Your—" she paused. "This... this is your room?"
He nodded once. "You seem surprised."
Isabella glanced around. "Emily and Peter brought us here. We didn't know."
Azrael stepped closer, and her breath caught again.
She could smell him. Like winter wind and dark roses. Dangerous and intoxicating.
"Don't be afraid," he said.
"I'm not," she lied, swallowing hard. "Just... shocked."
They stood in silence for a moment, eyes locked. Then she asked, "What's your name?"
Azrael tilted his head slightly, an amused glint in his eyes. "Find out yourself."
Isabella raised a brow, folding her arms. "So mysterious."
He didn't answer. Instead, he looked at her for a long moment before his lips curled — not into a smile exactly, but something close. Then, without another word, he turned, walking slowly out of the bathroom. His coat swayed behind him like a shadow, and then he disappeared through the bedroom door.
Isabella stood there, stunned.
Her heartbeat loud in her ears.
What just happened?
She turned slowly back to the mirror, her cheeks flushed. Her fingers brushed her neck where his presence had felt the strongest.
He didn't tell her his name.
He didn't ask any questions.
He simply… appeared.
And disappeared.
And yet, he now lived in the very corners of her mind — softly, firmly, like a tattoo on her soul.