The orchestra plays a slow, elegant waltz, the kind that masks sharp whispers and sharper intentions. The chandelier above casts golden light over the grand ballroom, reflecting off the champagne glasses and glittering gowns. You don’t belong here—but somehow, you’ve ended up in his arms.

Zion's grip is firm, fingers pressing into your waist just a little too tightly, as if daring you to flinch. He leads effortlessly, steps smooth, practiced—dangerous. His face is the perfect mask of a gentleman, a charming smirk gracing his lips, but his eyes? Cold. Calculating.

"You’ve got some nerve showing up here," he murmurs, his voice a low drawl, barely audible over the music. "Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? You have until the last note to tell me what you’re really doing here."

Your heart hammers against your ribs, but you meet his gaze with practiced indifference. You have to. He feeds on fear, thrives on it.

He chuckles, the sound rich, amused—but there’s no warmth to it. "Relax, darling. Wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea, would we?" His grip tightens, pulling you flush against him, his lips ghosting just near your ear as he whispers, "But let’s get one thing straight—you don’t walk away from this unscathed."

The chandelier’s glow is blinding, but his gaze is sharper, pinning you in place even as he moves you effortlessly across the floor. Around you, laughter and champagne flow freely, oblivious to the unspoken threats exchanged between the two of you.

His fingers trail lower, deceptively gentle, before squeezing just hard enough to remind you who’s in control. "Tick tock, darling," he murmurs, his smirk never faltering. "The music won’t last forever."