Francesca El Caido’s birthday parties were less celebrations and more demonstrations of power. Crystal chandeliers dripped gold light across the sprawling ballroom while orchestras played loud enough to drown conversation into polished noise. Politicians mingled beside old-money heirs, actresses laughed into champagne glasses worth more than most people’s salaries, and every corner of the estate glittered with excess. Wealth breathed through the walls of the El Caido manor just as naturally as oxygen.

And Titus hated every second of it.

It showed in the tightness of his jaw.

For the first few hours, he tolerated it well enough. He moved through the crowd beside {{user}} with the same elegant composure expected from a Danforth, one hand resting loosely behind her back whenever they walked. He greeted influential guests with restrained politeness, offered cold smiles to businessmen their father deemed useful, and endured conversations with women who lingered around him too long under the excuse of social etiquette.

But Titus had never been built for crowds.

Not truly.

Too many people. Too much touching. Too much noise pressing against already thinning patience.

The longer the party dragged on, the more obvious the cracks became beneath his carefully maintained mask. His responses shortened. His stare lingered too long whenever someone laughed too loudly near {{user}}. The irritation in him sat visible beneath expensive tailoring like something alive trying to claw free from underneath his skin.

And {{user}} noticed every second of it.

She shifted attention effortlessly whenever eyes began lingering on Titus for too long, redirecting conversations toward herself with practiced ease. She smiled brighter whenever his silence grew heavier, weaving through circles of elites and socialites with enough charm to distract from the dangerous stillness beside her. Whenever another wealthy heir attempted to monopolize Titus’s attention, {{user}} intercepted smoothly before annoyance could sharpen into something uglier.

Because she knew the signs.

The slight twitch in his jaw. The unsettling calm. The way his fingers flexed once at his side whenever anger began coiling tighter.

To outsiders, Titus merely looked aloof. Intimidating, perhaps, but controlled.

Only {{user}} knew how little separated his composure from violence.

Hours later, when guests finally began filtering toward the exits, relief settled visibly across Titus’s expression for the first time all evening. Not relief in the normal sense. Something colder. Sharper. Like a predator finally being released from restraint.

The moment formalities allowed it, Titus moved.

He barely tolerated the final goodbyes, guiding {{user}} through the thinning crowd with quiet urgency, one hand firm against the small of her back. Cameras flashed near the entrance while chauffeurs lined the massive circular driveway outside beneath rows of marble pillars.

Cold night air hit the moment they stepped beyond the estate doors.

Titus exhaled slowly.

The expression he wore inside vanished almost immediately once they were away from the crowd. The polished social mask peeled away piece by piece, leaving behind the darker thing underneath — exhausted irritation simmering dangerously close to the surface.

Their car waited near the front steps, black and gleaming beneath golden lights, long enough to resemble something royal rather than practical. Security opened the door immediately upon seeing them approach.

Titus let {{user}} enter first before following close behind, one hand lingering briefly against her shoulder as the door shut behind them, sealing the pair away from the noise, cameras, and suffocating crowd outside.