Elora didn't think about him the next morning.
The encounter hadn't meant anything to her—he was just a stranger, one of many faces that had passed through her awareness that night. A momentary presence. Fleeting. Easily forgettable.
The fundraiser came and went like a pleasant blur, folding itself neatly into memory alongside the low hum of classic music, the glow of warm chandelier light, and voices overlapping into laughter. The hall had smelled faintly of polished wood and perfume—soft, expensive scents that clung to fabric long after the night ended. If she thought about anything at all, it was how good it had felt to live—for once in her life—without worry. Without anticipation of something going wrong. Simply existing in the moment.
She'd spoken to a handful of people. Strangers. Classmates. People she vaguely recognized but had never really known. Faces that smiled, complimented her dress, asked where she got it. Fingers brushed her sleeve in passing. Someone laughed too loudly at something she couldn't remember saying. Some conversations dissolved the moment they ended, leaving nothing behind. Others lingered like smudged images—edges soft, details unclear.
None of it mattered.
If anything, the night had proven she could exist without fear or anxiety. That she could step into a room full of people and not feel like she was shrinking.
On her way to campus later that day, the air felt cooler than she expected. Morning sunlight spilled across concrete paths, pale and sharp, reflecting off windows and parked cars. The breeze carried the smell of damp earth and distant food stalls. Voices rose around her—students talking over one another, laughter punctuated by the scrape of shoes against pavement.
The night already felt distant, like something she'd imagined.
Familiar routines reclaimed their places easily. Her bag rested comfortably against her shoulder. Her steps fell into rhythm, matching the steady pace of students flowing toward lecture halls and hostels. She wore a soft knit top her mom made and jeans, practical and unremarkable, the fabric warm against her skin. Nothing about her outfit asked to be noticed today.
Her thoughts felt light.
Campus was crowded—more than usual. The session was coming to an end, and it showed. Students moved with urgency, some buried in notebooks, others talking loudly about deadlines and past questions. Lecturers crossed walkways with files tucked under their arms, expressions focused, distracted. Everyone seemed to be racing against time, trying to gather what they could before exams began.
Exams were two weeks away.
That meant she'd have to take a break from work and focus on studying. She rehearsed it in her head as she walked: no distractions, no late nights, no unnecessary conversations. Fully prepared. Focused.
She murmured the resolve to herself as she climbed the library steps, the cool stone seeping through the soles of her shoes.
She didn't look back.
---
On the other hand, for someone else, the night hadn't ended at all.
Adrian noticed immediately.
Not her—them.
The way attention followed her as she moved through space. The subtle shifts in posture. The pauses that lingered half a second too long. Eyes tracked her openly now. Like bees to honey, drawn as if by instinct. Admiration. Lust. Curiosity. Envy. Some masked it behind politeness. Others didn't bother.
It irritated him more than it should have.
Some watched from a distance, pretending not to stare. Others were careless, emboldened by proximity and noise, leaning in too close under the guise of conversation. Their voices blended with the music, with the clink of glasses and the low murmur of the room.
As much as he hated it—no, despised it—he remained still.
Observing.
He didn't blame them. That would've been hypocritical. She looked beautiful. The dress clung to her in a way that caught the light with every movement, the fabric a shade that complemented her skin perfectly. It wasn't loud or revealing, just deliberate. Like a gem placed among stones.
It was only natural she would draw attention.
What unsettled him was how easily she carried it.
She seemed unaware—or perhaps she no longer cared. She laughed easily, the sound unguarded. Accepted compliments with polite grace, fingers brushing her hair back absentmindedly. Her shoulders were relaxed. Her posture open. She moved as though she belonged entirely to the space she occupied.
Too comfortably.
She belonged to the room—the lights that softened her features, the music that wrapped around her like a second skin, the attention from unwavering eyes.
That was the problem.
He had noticed her first.
Before the dress. Before the smiles. Before the effortless laughter. Before anyone else had thought to look closely enough to see what mattered. Before she had stepped fully into herself.
Now she was being consumed by a room full of strangers who mistook admiration for entitlement.
A sharp pull tightened in his chest.
It wasn't jealousy. He refused to call it that. Jealousy was reactive. Irrational. Emotional. Qualities that had nothing to do with him.
This was something else.
Something quieter. Colder. Far more dangerous.
Correction.
Ownership.
Every man who stepped within five feet of her felt like a threat. An intrusion. Every shared laugh felt like a disruption, like a hand brushing against something that wasn't theirs to touch. They were trespassing.
They didn't see her the way he did.
They hadn't earned the right—and never would—to look at her like that.
The noise in the room turned invasive. Chaotic. Music that had once faded into the background now pressed against his ears. Laughter grated. The warmth of the space felt suffocating. Something he had already mapped out—understood, contained—was being disturbed by strangers who didn't know what they were handling.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed one man in particular.
He stood too close. Leaned in too easily. His hand hovered at her elbow longer than necessary.
"Too close," Adrian muttered under his breath.
His jaw tightened as he watched, tracking the exchange, waiting to see where it would lead. The urge to intervene rose sharply—hot and immediate—but he crushed it just as quickly. Acting now would be reckless. Obvious.
This was a chess game.
And they were merely pieces on his board.
He didn't make rash decisions. He didn't act irrationally. Every move had a purpose. Every pause meant something.
That was what separated him from men like them.
He exhaled slowly and shrugged, telling himself it didn't matter. That she was free to talk to whoever she wanted. That this meant nothing.
The lie didn't settle.
It never did.