The ballroom glowed under cascading chandeliers, where the scent of jasmine mingled with expensive cologne and the sound of laughter floated above sitar strings. Among the elite guests at the grand Indian celebration, he moved like he belonged—because he did. At just 21, the Indian-French heir carried generations of wealth and elegance on his shoulders. His green eyes—sharp, thoughtful, and out of place in a sea of brown—scanned the room with quiet amusement.

But then, he noticed her.

She stood near the edge of the crowd, a Filipina-Indian beauty known by name and presence. She wasn’t dancing, just watching—watching him. Their eyes met. And while others would have looked away, she held his gaze. There was something bold in the silence between them. Something unspoken.

Then, as dinner was announced and people began drifting toward the buffet, she slipped away.

And he followed.

He found her near the garden terrace, the moonlight catching in her hair. Without warning or hesitation, he stepped closer, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“You know,” he said softly, with a teasing glint in his eye, “in some cultures, staring like that is considered a declaration of interest.”

She turned, slightly startled—but not embarrassed.

He tilted his head. “Should I be flattered… or cautious?”