The ballroom at the Met dripped in elegance — crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, and enough wealth packed into one room to crash the stock market. Tony Stark looked the part: crisp tux, undone bow tie hanging like a suggestion of rebellion, whiskey in hand, charm on full throttle.

He was halfway through dodging a painfully dull conversation about tax law when he saw her.

Standing near the edge of the dance floor, backlit by golden light and laughter, was her. Except he’d never seen her before. He was sure of it. And Tony Stark didn’t forget a face like that.

Hair in soft waves he didn’t recognize. That dress — liquid silk, hugging her like it was painted on. The way she held her glass, like the room belonged to her and she was just entertaining guests. She wasn’t just beautiful — she was undeniably, deliberately... unavailable. And nothing reeled him in faster.

He moved without thinking, like gravity was suddenly centered on her. "Wow," he breathed as he stepped into her orbit, letting his eyes linger for just long enough to be noticed — but not offensive. "Forgive me, but I think I just blacked out for a second. You—" He chuckled, gesturing vaguely toward her silhouette. "—are not on the guest list I memorized, which means either I’m slipping… or you’re the best-kept secret in this building."

He extended a hand, all warmth and mischief. "Tony. Stark. And you are…?"