My eyes snap open.
My breathing is irregular—sharp, unsteady. I sit upright, still caught in the remnants of a disturbing dream. Sweat clings to my skin.
I reach for a glass of water and drink quickly, trying to steady my racing heart.
The room is quiet.
Too quiet.
I glance around.
The sun has already set, leaving my room painted in warm, golden-brown shadows. Soon, it will be fully dark—and the party will begin.
I run a hand through my curls and head to the bathroom.
The shower helps. The water, warm and grounding, washes away the lingering unease.
Afterwards, I oil my skin and step out.
I unzip the bag resting on my bed.
My mother never jokes when it comes to appearances.
Especially not dresses.
I lift it out.
A burgundy gown.
Perfectly tailored. Deep, rich—almost royal.
I open the shoebox next.
Burgundy stilettos with bow details at the back and delicate golden pearl ankle straps.
Of course she thought of everything.
I slip into the dress, then the heels, finishing with gold jewelry that catches the light with every movement.
When I'm done, I step onto my indoor balcony and look out into the night.
Darkness has fully taken over now.
It's time.
I leave my room and walk down the hallway.
With every sharp click of my heels, the sound of music and laughter grows louder.
The music softens.
Not completely—just enough to feel it shift.
Like the room is holding its breath.
I step into it.
And I feel it immediately.
A change in the air.
Like the entire space is preparing for something.
Or someone.
Me.
I pause at the top of the staircase.
The ballroom stretches endlessly below me—black drapes framing the edges, golden chandeliers spilling warm light, and burgundy tones scattered across tables like fire frozen in silk.
It's beautiful.
Almost overwhelming.
Then I notice it.
The shift.
A head turns.
Then another.
And another.
Until the entire room begins to notice me.
I should be used to this.
I'm not.
I force my expression into calm control.
Untouchable.
Then I take the first step.
My heels strike the marble floor—clear, deliberate, echoing through the hall like a signal.
Step by step, I descend.
Unrushed.
Unbothered.
Each movement measured, as if the room is moving with me instead of watching me.
My fingers brush the railing lightly—not for support, but for grounding.
Something real to hold onto.
I can feel them.
All of them.
Their attention.
Heavy.
Curious.
Lingering.
But I don't look at them.
Not yet.
Halfway down, something changes.
Small.
Subtle.
But enough to make my skin tighten.
A feeling.
Not fear.
Awareness.
Someone is watching me differently.
Not like the others.
Sharper.
Intentional.
Focused.
My breath catches slightly.
Don't react.
Don't stop.
But I feel it again.
That gaze.
It presses into me like weight—steady, unrelenting, as if it's trying to read something beneath my skin.
My eyes flick up before I can stop myself.
The upper level.
Shadows and soft gold light blur together, people seated in clusters.
And then—
There.
A presence.
I can't see clearly.
Only a shape.
Still.
Watching.
My mind drifts back to his message.
Back to that ungodly dream.
My grip tightens slightly on the railing.
Keep moving.
I tear my gaze away and continue down the stairs, though each step feels heavier now.
My heartbeat quickens, but my face stays composed.
No one can know.
I reach the final step.
Silence.
Then—
Applause erupts.
The sound crashes into me like nothing ever happened.
Like I didn't just feel something shift in the air.
Smiles. Laughter. Conversation returning as if on cue.
Normal again.
I step forward, greeting them as expected, responding when spoken to, playing the part perfectly.
But underneath it all—
I still feel it.
That gaze.
Closer now.
Like it never left.
STALKER POV
The music softens before she even arrives.
Not by command.
By instinct.
The room reacts before she enters it.
Conversation thins. Movement slows. Attention shifts toward the grand doors at the far top of the ballroom.
They open.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Two footmen stand on either side, their movements careful—almost ceremonial. As if they are not opening a door, but revealing something far more significant.
And then she steps in.
Sarima.
Burgundy silk wraps around her like it was made for her alone, the low back of her gown exposing elegant lines of skin that contrast sharply with the richness of the fabric. The dress trails behind her in a quiet flow, gliding across the floor like liquid shadow.
Black net gloves trace her arms—delicate, but striking.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
At her throat, a burgundy bow choker rests perfectly, a gold pendant suspended at its center, catching the light with every subtle movement.
For a moment—
I don't breathe.
She doesn't rush.
Doesn't hesitate.
She simply exists in the space like it already belongs to her.
Her heels strike the floor softly, each step pulling attention without effort.
Without permission.
Heads turn.
Whispers begin.
But she doesn't acknowledge any of it.
Not yet.
Her expression remains calm. Composed. Detached in a way that feels almost practiced.
Like she expected this.
Like she was always going to arrive here.
The doors close behind her with a quiet final sound.
And the night settles around her.
Claimed.
From the second floor, I watch everything.
Every step she takes.
Every shift in her posture.
Every controlled breath she doesn't realize she's holding.
They think they're watching her.
They're not.
They're only seeing the surface.
Elegance.
Beauty.
Presence.
But I see the fracture underneath it.
The smallest tension in her shoulders.
The way her fingers brush the railing just slightly longer than necessary.
The moment she feels it.
Me.
Her eyes lift.
Just once.
Toward the second floor.
Toward where I stand in the dark.
A small smile forms on my lips.
Barely there.
But enough.
Good.
She knows now.
And this time…
I'm not leaving without being noticed.
My gaze follows her every move.
From the moment she greets her friend—and her boyfriend—
To the second Oliver leans in, his lips brushing her ear, his hand resting far too comfortably against her skin.
She smiles.
My jaw ticks.
Slow.
Controlled.
Irritated.
They both glance toward the second floor, and I catch it—
A signal.
Someone is calling her up.
Perfect.
An opportunity.
I move.
Not rushed.
Never rushed.
Calculated.
I descend the stairs, blending seamlessly into the shifting crowd, my presence unnoticed—unremarkable. Exactly how I need it to be.
I reach her assigned table.
No hesitation.
No second thought.
I slip the letter onto her seat, the black envelope stark against the elegance surrounding it.
Deliberate.
Personal.
Mine.
My gaze lifts immediately, locking onto her across the room.
Still smiling.
Still unaware.
Just how I like her.
The calm before the storm.
I step back, disappearing into the crowd once more, watching as she finally makes her way back toward the table.
Then—
Movement at the entrance.
The celebrant arrives with his wife.
The room erupts into a standing ovation.
A perfect distraction.
Her attention shifts.
Then returns.
She bends slightly.
Notices it.
The letter.
Her fingers pause—
Then pick it up.
Careful.
Curious.
Her eyes scan the surface—
And widen.
There it is.
Recognition.
A flicker of something deeper.
Her composure cracks—just slightly.
Anxiety slips in, coating her expression in something far more real than the mask she wears.
Her gaze lifts.
Searching.
Controlled—but not enough.
Not from me.
Her eyes move through the crowd—
Until they stop.
On me.
And for a moment…
Everything else disappears.