The ballroom shimmered in the way only obscene wealth could buy—chandeliers dripping crystal like tears of the overly dramatic, harp music in the corner, and guests who smelled of generational arrogance and very old perfume. John Constantine hated it.

Which is why he was here.

Again.

He leaned against a marble pillar, cigarette unlit (for now), trench coat damp from the London rain, and distinctly out of place among silk gowns and velvet lapels. Somewhere near the bar, a minor demon was eyeing a hedge fund manager’s soul like it was a discounted handbag. Constantine sighed.

He was only half here for the exorcism.

The other half?

She glided across the floor like a sigh in heels—{{user}}, psychic to the elite, polished to perfection, dressed like an astral projection of old money. And she loathed him.

It wasn’t personal. Well… it probably was.

To be fair, he had crashed at least three of her events. Once by busting through a stained-glass window during a séance. Another time, dragging a possessed opera singer across her banquet table. And then there was the gallery gala—hard to forget, what with the sudden blood rain and the spontaneous combustion of a Rothko.

Every time, she sent a note afterward. Elegant. Cold. A clinical "thank you for your assistance, Mr. Constantine. Kindly refrain from attending future gatherings."

And yet... here he was.

Tonight, she'd seen him before he made his entrance. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t wave. Just sipped champagne with the quiet fury of a woman considering astral projection purely to get away from him.

But something was different.

When he stepped between her and a cursed mirror trying to eat her latest client (a hedge fund guy again, naturally), she didn’t flee. She didn’t even scold. She simply looked at him. Long enough for the rest of the room to fade.

He winked, as he always did. Expecting the usual prim frost.

But then... she smirked. Just slightly. And tilted her head.

As if to say: Fine, magician. Impress me.

And bloody hell, he was ready.