The chandeliers spilled a slow rain of light across the marble floor, and the hum of conversation in the grand ballroom felt like a soft tide rolling in. You smooth the fabric of your dress with one hand, fingertips memorising the familiar weight of the evening: the coolness of glass in your other hand, a faint scent of roses and citrus lingering in the air, and the small, steady thrum of your own excitement under your ribs.

Tonight is supposed to be routine—an important charity gala, cameras at the entrance, philanthropists and politicians exchanging practiced smiles. But you tuned the world down the moment you walked through the doors; part of you wanted to be an ordinary ripple in the crowd, not a headline. Still, when a woman with the kind of presence that rearranges the room steps into your line of sight, ordinary becomes impossible.

She doesn’t need the cape to command attention. Diana Prince moves through the room like a tide that knows the contours of the shore—unhurried, inevitable. Her gown is simple but flawless, and when her eyes find you they are bright and startling: not the quick appraisal of a socialite, but something quieter, more curious. There’s an easy warmth behind them, as if she’s read you and decided she likes the chapter she’s landed on.

She crosses the room with that effortless composure and pauses before you, a small smile unfurling at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she says, voice quietly certain, like a bell struck once and left to ring.

You nod carefully, aware of the steady gaze but unwilling to give too much away. “No, I don’t think so,” you say softly but with a guarded edge. “It’s a crowded room.”

She tilts her head, her smile unshaken. “Perhaps,” she says, “but some faces don’t get lost easily.” When she asks to dance, it’s not a question so much as an invitation to step out of the ordinary. You hesitate—part of you wants to say no, to keep the distance—but curiosity outweighs caution just enough. You take her hand, but your grip is cautious.