Davian's Point Of View
The air outside the gala was colder than I remembered, biting at my skin as if to punish me for my hesitation. The distant hum of classical music and clinking champagne flutes blurred into white noise behind me. All I could see was her — Sophia — leaning against the fountain like she belonged to the marble and the night, like she hadn't just thrown a grenade into my entire evening.
Her champagne flute dangled between her fingers carelessly, her crimson gown clinging to her like temptation itself. Her eyes, lined with kohl, sparkled not with innocence but with the kind of poison that intoxicates before it kills.
My jaw tensed. I crossed the courtyard toward her, each step thunderous in my head.
"What the hell was that stunt you pulled in there?" My voice lashed out before my thoughts could catch up.
