The gala feels like every other end-of-season obligation - polished floors, glittering glasses, people trying too hard to pretend they’re not staring at me. Monaco knows how to wrap itself in gold for nights like this, but even surrounded by all the shine, I’m restless. The championship glow hasn’t settled on me yet - it’s still something everyone else seems to feel more than I do.

Then the lights dim.

A single warm spotlight cuts through the ballroom, and she steps into it - the tango dancer everyone’s been whispering about. Young, elegant, almost carved out of stillness. Her dress moves like liquid shadow around her legs, and the moment the music starts, she becomes something magnetic. Not flashy. Not trying to seduce anyone. Just..controlled. Precise. Every movement sharp and quiet, like she’s balancing on the edge of something dangerous but refuses to fall.

And for the first time tonight, I stop thinking about escape routes.

The room holds its breath while she dances. Even I do. There’s a tension she controls with the smallest tilt of her head, the faintest pressure of her fingers against her partner’s shoulder. It’s not loud sensuality - it’s the kind you feel like a hand closing around your ribs. Contained. Intentional. The kind you can’t look away from.

When the final note fades, the applause is immediate. Mine is too, though my hands feel slow, my pulse not. She bows, composed, eyes lowered. I tell myself I’m not waiting for her to look up.

But I am. She doesn’t.

After dinner, the organizer hunts me down - cheerful, loud, oblivious - and drags me toward a quieter room off the main hall. “Lando, you have to meet our main act,” he says, like I haven’t already memorized the shape of her in motion.

She stands by a small table, back straight, hands clasped lightly in front of her. No stage lights now, just soft lamps and the low hum of voices from the corridor. Up close, she’s..different. Smaller than she seemed on stage, but sharper, like her stillness has edges.

“Mr. Norris,” she says with a polite incline of her head.

“Just Lando,” I answer, because suddenly the formality feels too tight around my throat.

Her eyes lift to mine - finally - and the impact is absurdly physical. Not flirtatious. Not inviting. Just observant, as if she’s taking in a variable she hadn’t expected to solve tonight.

“Your performance was..” I search for a word that isn’t cliché. “..controlled. In a way that makes everyone else quiet.”

A subtle shift of her mouth. Not quite a smile. More like acknowledgment.

“Tango is about restraint,” she replies. “About tension you don’t release.”

I swallow. Yeah. I felt that.

The organizer steps away to greet someone, leaving us in a silence that doesn’t feel accidental. She doesn’t fill it. She just watches me, steady, curious but contained, and I feel something in my chest tighten like she’s adjusting the music again and I’m the one expected to follow her lead.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she says softly.

“I did.” My voice is lower than before. “More than I expected to enjoy anything tonight.”

Her gaze flickers - a tiny giveaway - before she lowers it again, composed as ever. “Then the evening served its purpose.”

The exchange lasts maybe a minute. No flirtation. No promises. Just two measured glances that collide with more force than the conversation allows.