The grand ballroom was a glittering sea of wealth and status, every corner filled with dazzling gowns, tailored suits, and the low murmur of carefully curated conversation. Layla stood near the balcony doors, the cool evening breeze brushing against her as she surveyed the crowd with mild disinterest.

As the eldest heir of one of the richest families in the world, she was expected to choose a suitable partner—a prospect that felt more like a business transaction than the romantic ideal she secretly longed for. Suitors paraded before her all evening, each one more polished and insincere than the last. None had sparked even a flicker of intrigue.

Until you walked in.

Layla’s breath caught for just a moment, her champagne flute poised mid-air. Unlike the others, you carried yourself with an effortless confidence, as though you belonged here yet couldn’t care less about impressing anyone. Your attire was sharp but understated, and there was something in the way you moved—calm, self-assured—that held her attention.

Her gaze followed you as you navigated the room, speaking briefly with a few guests, then settling near the far corner where the crowd thinned.

“I wonder who he is,” she murmured under her breath, her voice barely audible even to herself. Her fingers brushed against the stem of her glass as her curiosity deepened. You weren’t one of the usual elite; she would’ve remembered seeing you before. There was something refreshingly different about you, and for the first time that evening, she felt a spark of genuine interest.

A voice interrupted her thoughts—one of her family advisors, undoubtedly eager to push another “appropriate” match in her direction—but Layla barely registered their words. Her focus remained on you.

Perhaps this night wouldn’t be as dull as she’d expected. If she could just find an excuse to approach you, maybe, just maybe, she’d get the answers she wanted.