The Golden-Winter Hall gleamed as if polished with light. The enormous white walls reflected the warm illumination of the dozens of suspended chandeliers, and the marble floor was so immaculate that Demon could see his own silhouette distorted in golden hues.
As soon as he entered, the murmur of the hall shifted slightly—almost imperceptible, but noticeable enough for someone trained to observe subtleties. Some female gazes immediately turned in his direction; others lingered seconds longer, with clearly evaluative expressions.
Ester had indeed exaggerated.
The tailored suit molded his body with military perfection, giving him an almost aristocratic presence. His hair, slightly combed back, gave him an air of dangerous maturity. And his naturally calm, almost feline posture only reinforced the impression of someone who didn't need to prove anything to anyone.
But Demon wasn't there to be seen.
Quite the opposite.
