The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the clink of designer heels on polished marble floors.

The tables were adorned with immaculate centerpieces—arrangements of white orchids and silver candle holders that had cost more than most people’s annual rent.

This wasn’t about charity. It was about maintaining a carefully crafted image.

You lingered near the back of the room, observing the scene with a detached sort of interest.

You had seen it all before: the impeccably dressed faces pretending to care, the smiles that never quite reached their eyes.

But tonight felt different.

Maybe it was the reputation of the man hosting the event, or perhaps the overwhelming display of wealth, but beneath the flawless surface, there was a palpable sense of danger in the air.

Your eyes drifted to Rhys Montrose—the undeniable centerpiece of the evening. It seemed like everyone was orbiting him.

And he seemed to have caught you gaze as well, as he suddenly sauntered over to you.

"Has hell frozen over, or have I finally caught {{user}} attending one of these 'charity events'?" Rhys’ voice was velvet—smooth, teasing.