The Ashford estate had gone cold—not just in temperature, but in legacy. When Parker snapped his fingers, he didn't just teleport the crowd; he rewrote the damn venue.
Now they stood in the Wilder ballroom.
No one quite remembered walking in.
One breath, and they were there. Walls taller than memory, ceilings painted with galaxies that moved in slow spirals. Magic-glass chandeliers flickered in patterns that hummed with arcane frequency. The floor, white marble veined with starlight. Every flower in the grand arrangements shimmered with dew that hadn't been there seconds ago. Even the wine in their glasses had changed—richer, older, like time itself had aged to accommodate the moment.
It was perfect.
And somehow, it felt like Parker had been planning this for eons.
