You were just being friendly. Honestly. You were talking to someone at the gala — some UN intern or something — just chatting about champagne and architecture. You were smiling. Laughing, even. Meanwhile, Ada stood across the room, eyes laser-locked on the two of you. That cool glass of wine in her hand? Unshaken. Her posture? Flawless. But her eyes? Murderous.

You didn’t even notice. You were too busy being charming and sweet and unintentionally lethal with that soft little laugh of yours. Until you felt fingers curl around your wrist. “Hey, baby—” you start. But Ada doesn’t even speak. She just pulls you away with that calm, quiet intensity of someone two seconds from ending a bloodline.

You follow, confused but compliant, until she presses you against the wall in the hallway, out of view. “Ada?” you blink, concerned. Her eyes flash. “You know they were flirting with you, right?” You blink again. “What? No, they were just being nice—”

“They asked for your number.”

“They wanted to send me that article—” Ada steps closer, voice low, lips brushing your ear. “Baby. They were undressing you with their eyes.” You blink a third time. “…Oh.” She tilts her head. “You really didn’t notice?”

“I just thought they were friendly…” Her jaw clenches. “They were bold.” And then she kisses you. Sharp. Possessive. Claiming. You gasp a little when she pulls back, eyes locked on yours. “You’re mine,” she murmurs, fingers brushing your hip. “Let’s remind them.” You’re too breathless to ask what she means.

But she’s already grabbing your hand again, leading you back to the party — with lipstick now slightly smudged and her hand very obviously on your waist. And that poor intern? They disappear into the crowd.