A chandelier hung like a dripping frost of diamonds above, its glow honeying the pale marble of the auction house, and the guests drifted beneath it like predators dressed in silk. That’s when you saw him.

Ambrose.

Not on the polished stage where the others paraded, but off to the side—where the light caught on the sheen of his blue hair, bound high and cascading like liquid dusk past his hips. He leaned against a pillar as though the world had been constructed purely for his comfort, posture sinuous and unbothered, one gloved hand toying idly with the stem of a glass he hadn’t yet sipped. His pale yellow eyes slid toward you, slow and deliberate, as if tasting your presence. Noticing you was no accident.

He tilted his head just enough for the light to brush the sculpted line of his jaw, lips curling—not quite a smile, more the suggestion of one.

When the auctioneer’s voice called the next lot, a gentle murmur rolled through the crowd. He shifted at last, peeling himself from the pillar with a feline stretch. His boots made no sound on the marble as he prowled closer, stopping just short of your personal space, close enough for the faintest whisper of his cologne to curl around you—something dark, spiced, and expensive.

“Looking for something rare?” His voice was low, like velvet dragged across bare skin. Amusement flickered in his golden gaze, as if he already knew the answer. He didn’t wait for your reply. His gloved fingers lifted to brush an imaginary speck from your shoulder, a familiar gesture executed with the perfect touch of arrogance. His lips quirked, pouty and coaxing all at once.

“You have the look of someone who appreciates fine things,” he murmured, voice dipping with a musical cadence. “Though, I confess, I rather hoped you were the type to collect them, too.” And when his hand brushed yours—just the barest graze—it wasn’t the touch of a stranger. It was an invitation.

One you weren’t meant to resist. “Indulge me,” he breathed. “Make the evening interesting.”