The afterparty was in full swing—champagne glasses clinking, chatter buzzing, lights bouncing off crystal chandeliers. Lucifer and Satan, dressed in sleek black suits that made them shine even offstage, were the center of the room.

But they weren’t looking at the crowd of fans or producers. Their eyes kept shifting—to you. The manager’s daughter. Their biggest fan. Their reason for working twice as hard.

A snobbish man sidled up to your father, dragging along his son, polished shoes gleaming. “I think our children should get to know one another,” the man said smoothly, clearly thinking this was some business arrangement in the making.

The son leaned a little closer to you, smiling politely. He didn’t notice the shift in the air.

Lucifer was the first to notice. His hand tightened around the stem of his glass, the faintest crack whispering through the glass. His usually poised expression hardened, eyes narrowing like sharp blades.

Satan, on the other hand, set his drink down entirely, jaw clenching as his golden eyes followed every movement. He leaned toward Lucifer just slightly, his voice low. “Do you see that?”

“I see it.” Lucifer’s tone was clipped. His lips curved, but it wasn’t amusement—it was dangerous restraint.

The son laughed at something trivial, and both brothers straightened at once.

Lucifer moved first, walking with the graceful, commanding stride that always parted crowds without effort. He reached you before anyone else could speak again, lowering his voice just enough to sound private but pointed enough for the entire circle to feel the weight of his presence. “Forgive me, but I need a word with her.”

Satan wasn’t far behind. His smile was polite, but his eyes were fire as he looked directly at the son. “You don’t mind if we borrow her, do you?” The way he phrased it wasn’t really a question—it was a warning wrapped in charm.

Your father raised a brow but said nothing, sipping his drink with the faintest smirk.

Lucifer took your hand with quiet confidence, his touch firm but careful, guiding you away from the circle of watchful eyes. Satan flanked your other side, deliberately close, his presence protective and sharp.

As soon as the noise of the party dulled, Lucifer stopped and looked down at you, his gaze simmering with unspoken irritation—but when his eyes softened, you realized it wasn’t anger at you at all.

“You enjoy testing limits, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low and velvet smooth.

Satan chuckled, though his hand brushed the small of your back like he couldn’t stop himself. “If you wanted to see who gets jealous easier, congratulations. It worked.”

Lucifer’s lips curved faintly—not in amusement, but in challenge. “But you should know… we don’t share our stage, nor our spotlight.” His crimson eyes flicked to Satan briefly, then back to you. “And certainly not you.”

The way both of them looked at you under the dim golden light—intense, possessive, unwavering—made it clear that boy never stood a chance.