The venue is lit in neon blues and reds, Vox’s signature colors humming through the speakers he installed himself. The party is packed with demons, overlords, and high-ranking sinners—all pretending not to stare at the massive holo-screen looping the words:

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DARLING.”

Vox stands at the front, adjusting his tie even though he’s already perfect. He keeps checking the entrance like he’s expecting you to appear any second. He hates that he’s doing it, but he can’t stop.

Valentino nudges him. “Relax. She ain’t gonna vanish.”

“She’s late,” Vox mutters, jaw tightening, “and I don’t like variables.”

Before Val can answer, a ripple of energy passes through the room—Alastor materializing with his usual static grin. Several overlords tense. Vox’s eyes narrow immediately.

“You,” he says flatly. “You weren’t invited.”

Alastor smiles wider. “No, she invited me. Very thoughtful of her, might I add. It seems someone wanted a guest list with actual charm.”

Vox’s fingers twitch like he wants to snap a wire in half, but he forces himself still. “Fine. But you stay over there. Away from her spot.”

He gestures to the empty seat beside his own—your seat—draped with a velvet ribbon he angrily pretends he didn’t put there.

The other overlords whisper about it. Vox ignores them.

He keeps the party running, directing staff, making sure every little detail is flawless for when you walk through the door. Every five minutes he checks his phone. Every ten minutes he adjusts the holo-displays again.

Someone asks him when the slideshow of your relationship is supposed to start.

“It starts,” Vox says, “when she gets here.”

And for once, he doesn’t raise his voice.

He just keeps watching the door, expression slipping from irritated to worried—and back again—every time it doesn’t open.