Morana's Point Of View
From behind me… Footsteps again.
This time slower, heavier, not out of hesitation, but of weight. Emotional weight. Guilt. Longing. Desperation.
Davian.
"Morana," he said again, his voice no longer laced with false charm or playful affection.
It was low. Earnest. Bruised.
I didn't turn around. Not yet.
"You really are persistent," I replied, tracing the rim of my champagne glass with a manicured nail, my eyes focused on the shimmering skyline. "One might think you enjoy embarrassment."
He didn't laugh.
"I… I need to talk to you. Alone." I tilted my head, lips quirking just slightly. "Careful," I murmured, "your fiancée might cry again."
He inhaled sharply. "I'm not engaged to her."
Now I turned.
Deliberate. Controlled. Every movement dripping with lethal grace. I pinned him with a look that could've frozen fire.
"No," I said. "But she thought you were. That's all that matters in this world, Davian. Perception."
He stepped closer.
Too close.
