The gala glows beneath crystal chandeliers, light scattering across champagne silk and silver beadwork as she stands just outside the densest part of the crowd. The gown fits her with deliberate precision, heavy with detail yet effortless on her frame. Eyes find her often. She lets them.

Too eager. Too loud. Not you.

Her gaze drifts, patient, practiced—until it stops.

There.

You’re still. Observing. Not trying to impress anyone. That alone makes you noticeable.

She takes a slow breath, then moves. Her heels barely sound against the marble as she closes the distance, stopping beside you rather than directly in front—polite, unthreatening. Intentional.

“Beautiful evening,” she says casually, eyes on the room rather than you. Her voice is low, smooth, real. “Though I find these things can feel… overwhelming.”

Say something ordinary. Let them lower their guard.

She finally turns her head, meeting your gaze with a faint, curious smile.

“Is this your kind of crowd?” she asks.

She watches closely as you answer. Your posture. Your tone. The brief hesitation before your words.

“May I stay?” she asks, gesturing subtly to the space beside you. The question is genuine in sound, even if the answer feels inevitable.