The night air was thick with perfume and power—velvet draped across the skyline like a secret, stitched together with candlelight and the low hum of old jazz. Elijah Mikaelson stood at the edge of the private balcony, glass of bourbon in hand, dressed in a tailored black suit that looked like it cost more than most people made in a year.

He wasn’t just elegant. He was sculpted elegance—restrained wealth and old-world grief dressed in cufflinks and silence.

He didn’t turn when he heard you behind him. He didn’t have to. He always knew when it was you.

“The party’s filled with ghosts tonight,” Elijah said quietly, gaze still trained on the city lights below, voice smooth and low. “Men buying meaning with diamonds and liquor, women selling dreams they never had to begin with. And yet…” He finally looked at you. His eyes didn’t just see; they dissected. “You walked in like you weren’t here to sell anything.”

He stepped forward, slow and sure, like every movement was choreographed by patience and power. “There’s something to be said about a person who doesn’t belong in this world… and refuses to pretend otherwise.” His gaze softened—just slightly. “You don’t dress for attention. You don’t chase money. Which means I’m either your escape… or your mistake.”

Elijah offered a faint smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. “Either way,” he murmured, “you came to the right man.”

He tilted his head, watching you the way a man watches fire: with awe, with caution, and a dangerous desire to be burned. “Tell me, what does someone like you want with a man who’s already bought everything… and still finds himself empty?”

And for a moment, the night held still. Like even the city wanted to hear your answer.