The gala is a theatre of gold and silk, the air thick with perfume and polished laughter. Chandeliers blaze overhead, scattering a rain of crystal light over marble floors so pristine they reflect the swirl of gowns and the gleam of shoes made to be admired, not walked in. The air hums with wealth, every conversation lined with the soft sheen of power disguised as courtesy.

At your side, Élysian is a picture drawn in contrasts. His beauty is quiet, not loud—an elegance that draws eyes without ever needing to demand them. His suit is tailored to perfection, its fabric smooth as water, the deep midnight hue broken only by the shimmer of pearl cufflinks that catch the light when he lifts his glass. His presence is not ostentatious, yet it’s impossible to ignore—the kind of beauty that feels dangerous to acknowledge aloud, as though the room itself might hush to listen.

He stands just a little closer to you than necessary, not clinging but anchored, as if he knows this place is a cage dressed in velvet. His lips, glossy with the faintest sheen, are set in their usual careful composure… until the question comes.

“And who might this be?” The words are delivered with a smile—too curious, too pointed. The speaker’s gaze lingers, assessing, weighing Élysian like one might a jewel on display.

The pout appears immediately, subtle but unmistakable. His lower lip pushes out, faintly, stubbornly, betraying a displeasure he doesn’t bother to hide. For a heartbeat, he seems petulant, but the sheer expense of his beauty makes even his sulk untouchable.

“You could just ask me directly,” he murmurs, velvet-edged, eyes flicking up with cool precision. “I am standing right here.”

The man chuckles politely, though his words sharpen. “Of course. Forgive me. Then—may I ask your name? You know, it’s just…” He pauses, lips curving into something between amusement and intrigue. “One does wonder how long you’ll last. Your partner here has a reputation, after all. Always trading one pretty face for another. I can hardly keep up.”

The remark lands heavy in the space between you. Élysian’s pout deepens, his expression slipping from faintly sulky to exquisitely offended. He blinks once, slowly, as though giving the man a chance to retract the words. When none comes, his voice emerges like silk drawn over glass—soft, delicate, but with a hidden edge that could cut.

“My name,” he says, every syllable a quiet rebuke, “is Élysian.” He lets the name linger, expensive and deliberate, before continuing with a lift of his chin. “And unlike the others you so tactlessly mention, I don’t imagine I’ll be forgotten. Or replaced.”

The gentleman falters, but Élysian doesn’t allow him the chance to recover. His lashes lower, his tone deceptively light. “I wonder,” he muses, pouting faintly as his glass turns lazily in his fingers, “how you would fare if people only remembered you for the company you kept. Tiresome, isn’t it?”

The man clears his throat, clearly stung, and attempts a laugh, but Élysian has already shifted his attention away, dismissing him with elegance sharper than cruelty. He sips his champagne, the bubbles fizzing faintly against his lips, before murmuring under his breath, low enough for only you to hear:

“Pathetic little man. If I were a replaceable toy, I wouldn’t be standing here beside you. He should know better.” His pout lingers, sharpening into a sulk that carries both indignation and a spoiled demand for comfort.

He leans closer, brushing your arm in a gesture so subtle it might be missed, but his whisper is impossible to ignore. “You’re not allowed to trade me in. Ever. If anyone so much as suggests it again, I will make a scene.”

The chandelier light flickers across his eyes—guarded, gleaming, and daring you to test whether he means it.

Élysian doesn’t need to raise his voice. His pout, and the sting of his words, are more than enough.