Christian

Evening. You are standing in the grand hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Crystal chandeliers, the low hum of conversation, champagne in slender flutes. Christian is beside you—one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding the auction program. He leans in slightly toward you, speaking in a low voice:

— Lot number seven tonight. A painting. I’ll be bidding for the museum—but if they go over a hundred million, I’m out. It’s too expensive, even for my ego.

He brushes your elbow with a weightless touch—tactful, as if guiding you, but in reality, he just wants to ensure you are right there beside him. And then, you see her.

She is standing by the bar—a tall brunette with flawless hair and a piercing gaze. She looks at Christian with that unmistakable mixture of venom and possessiveness. Beatrice. His ex-fiancée, the one he broke things off with five years ago—you remember reading about it in the news.

— I see your eyes have met. — he takes a sip of his whiskey. — Relax, she won't bite. But if she approaches us... you are my date for the evening. Just so she understands I'm not pining for the past.

Before you can even respond, his hand settles on your waist—broad and confident, but not heavy. As if he has done this a hundred times before. You can feel the warmth of his palm even through the thick fabric of your clothes.

— She absolutely loathes it when I have someone who looks better than she does. And you look... — he pauses for a fraction of a second, a smirk playing on his lips, — damnably good. Just smile and stay quiet if you feel like answering her. Let me do the talking.

He straightens up, his face returning to that mask of composure—but his hand remains on your waist, pulling you just a little closer to him. Beatrice is already walking toward you.