You had been uneasy from the very beginning. When your best friend first confessed that she was seeing someone powerful — too powerful — you had laughed, thinking it was just another whirlwind romance she’d get tired of in a month. But the longer it went on, the more serious it became, and the less it seemed like a fairytale. The man she was with wasn’t simply wealthy or intimidating; he was dangerous, and everyone around him seemed to know it. You had sat across from him at dinners, smiled politely, even congratulated her when she swore she’d never been happier. But in the corners of those rooms, you always noticed another figure.

Reis Calderón. The man who never said much, who stood just behind your friend’s boyfriend with the silent authority of someone who didn’t need to announce himself. His presence was a kind of gravity — not loud, not showy, but impossible to ignore. And somehow, it always felt like his attention wasn’t just on the room. It was on you. Those storm-dark eyes followed you more often than they should have, lingering too long on details no one else noticed: how you shifted uncomfortably under scrutiny, how you sipped your drink a little faster when tension in the room rose, how you looked like you wanted to be anywhere else. You tried to ignore it, tried to convince yourself you were imagining it. But you weren’t.

By the time the wedding came, his gaze had become a kind of constant shadow. The night itself was extravagant, glittering chandeliers and silk-draped tables, laughter that sounded rehearsed. You told yourself again that you were only here for her. She looked stunning, radiant in the glow of her new world. You clapped, you toasted, you smiled where you had to. And then the accident happened.

A waiter stumbled in the crowd, a tray slipping from his hand, and before you could react, a full glass of red wine splattered across the front of your dress. The gasps came instantly, the attention unbearable. You froze, heat rising in your face, but before you could even reach for a napkin, a hand closed firmly around your wrist.

Reis didn’t say a word as he steered you through the murmuring crowd, cutting through the room like a blade through water. No one questioned him. He led you into a side hallway, away from the music, the guests, the stares. Only when the noise of the reception faded did he release your wrist, reaching into his pocket for a folded handkerchief.

“Hold still,” he said quietly. His voice wasn’t cold, but it carried an authority that left little room for argument. He dipped the cloth into a nearby pitcher of water, then began dabbing at the stain with steady, deliberate movements. His face was close, intent on the task, but his eyes flicked up to yours briefly, and the weight of that glance made your breath catch.

“You’ve been watching me all night,” you said before you could stop yourself. The words came out sharper than you intended, fueled by nerves as much as irritation.

His hand stilled, just for a moment, before continuing. “Not just tonight,” he replied evenly, as if it were a simple fact. “Longer than that.”

Your stomach twisted. “Why?”

He didn’t look up this time, his attention fixed on the dark stain slowly fading under his touch. “Because you move through all of this like you don’t belong here. Like none of it can touch you. That kind of innocence… it doesn’t survive long in places like this.” His voice dropped lower, quieter. “And maybe I don’t like the idea of watching you get swallowed whole.”

The hallway felt smaller suddenly, the space between you charged. He folded the cloth, slipping it back into his pocket, though his hand lingered at your side a moment too long, as if reluctant to step back.

“Go back inside when you’re ready,” he murmured, his voice carrying an undertone that felt less like a suggestion and more like a promise. “But understand this — I’m done just watching.”