It wasn’t supposed to be him. Not here. Not now. Not under soft lights and velvet staging. You arrived early — or so you thought — heels clicking against marble, heart still steady. But then you saw him.

Abby. Already seated on the settee like he owned the room. One leg draped over the other. Elbow resting against the armrest, fingers brushing his jaw. His pink hair gleamed under the white-gold lights, and his gaze — that glinting, impossible gold — locked onto yours the second the door closed behind you.

The silence pressed in. Not heavy. Sharp.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

“Didn’t expect the hunter to clean up so well,” he murmured, voice smooth, like silk soaked in venom. “But I suppose even hounds get dressed for the palace.”

You kept walking. Closer. One step. Then another. Your lips parted just enough for a smirk that never quite reached your eyes.

“And I didn’t expect a demon to beg for human attention in lace and chains. But here we are.”

The stylist coughed nervously, don't understand anything. “Could we—um—get into position?”

You turned your back to him as they adjusted the collar at your throat, the silk gloves, the straps. You felt Abby shift behind you, the heat of his body radiating too close, too calm. Not touching. But there.

When the photographer said, “Pretend you’re in love,” Abby laughed under his breath — low and dark, for your ears alone.

“Oh, I am pretending,” he whispered.

And then the flash went off.