The Invitation
The last thing I expected that morning was for Jisan to say,
"Hazel, you're coming with me to the gala."
I blinked at him across the campus courtyard. "What gala?"
He grinned, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "The Grand Royale. Charity event. My family's company's one of the sponsors."
My stomach knotted. "Jisan, I—I don't belong at things like that."
He tilted his head, teasing but kind. "You belong wherever you decide to show up."
Easy for him to say.
He looked like he was born for places with chandeliers and polished floors — confident smile, perfect posture, expensive watch glinting in the sun.
And me?
Just a quiet girl with secondhand shoes and the habit of staring at the ground when people looked too long.
"I don't even have anything to wear," I murmured.
He smiled, softening. "I'll take care of that. You don't have to do anything — just come, stand beside me, and let me handle the talking. It's for our college charity program anyway, not just the business crowd."
I hesitated. Crowds made me nervous. Eyes made me nervous.
But when he smiled like that — kind, easy, certain — it was hard to say no.
"Fine," I sighed. "But only because you said please last time."
He laughed. "Deal."
That night, while ironing my plain dress, I couldn't help thinking how strange my life felt — scrubbing floors one evening, standing beside the college heartthrob the next.
My sister-in-law's voice echoed from the living room, sharp as always.
"Wasting your time again? You think you'll marry rich if you hang around that boy?"
I stayed silent, eyes on the iron.
Dreams were dangerous here. They only brought more scorn.
When the night of the gala came, the Grand Royale shimmered like a palace.
Glass chandeliers, music that floated like perfume, and laughter that sounded expensive.
Jisan led me inside, his hand warm around mine — not romantic, just steady.
"Don't worry," he whispered. "Just breathe. You're fine."
He belonged in that world.
Every step he took drew greetings, smiles, nods of recognition.
And I — I was just the quiet shadow beside him, smiling when introduced, whispering polite hellos.
"Jisan Rahman," one of the guests said with a laugh, "your cousin will be pleased you made it this year."
"Cousin?" I repeated softly.
He smiled at me. "Yeah. Ariyan Vincent Romano — my mother's side. You'll probably see him tonight, though he's not much of a crowd person."
The name stirred something faint, almost electric. I didn't know why — maybe the way people said it, with quiet respect and fear mingled together.
We stepped further into the hall.
And across the room — surrounded by polished men in suits — I saw him.
Tall. Composed. A face carved from marble and shadow.
Even from a distance, his presence pulled at the air, commanding silence without a word.
His eyes — cold gray, unreadable — lifted for a moment.
Just a moment.
And they met mine.
A heartbeat.
A shiver down my spine.
Then he looked away — as if I'd never existed.
But I couldn't forget that single glance.
Because in those eyes, I'd seen something that didn't belong in that glittering room.
Something raw.
Something broken.
And somehow, I knew —
That night wasn't coincidence.
It was the beginning of something neither of us was ready for.
● The Mistake
I didn't mean to lose him.
One moment Jisan was right beside me, laughing with a group of guests, and the next—he was gone, swallowed by the glittering crowd.
The ballroom was enormous, filled with perfume and music and people who spoke like they owned the world.
I tried to weave through them quietly, murmuring polite "excuse me"s that no one seemed to hear.
My heart was pounding.
Where did he go?
I followed a side hallway, thinking maybe he'd stepped away for a call. The noise faded behind me, replaced by soft instrumental music and the low hum of conversation.
Then I noticed the velvet rope sectioning off a quieter area — elegant, guarded by two men in black suits.
People with expensive watches and colder eyes mingled there, wine glasses in hand.
Before I could stop myself, someone brushed past me, and I stumbled—right through the open gap.
"Miss, that's the VIP—" one of the guards began, but his words faded as my eyes lifted.
He was there.
Standing near the window, a wine glass in his hand, posture effortless and powerful.
Ariyan Vincent Romano.
The world around him seemed to still — his presence sharp and commanding, the kind of silence that made you forget how to breathe.
His gaze turned toward me, gray eyes narrowing slightly.
And in that single look, I felt small.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was low, deep — too calm. The kind of calm that hides a storm.
"I— I'm sorry," I stammered. "I was just looking for—"
His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Of course. You're looking. Everyone always is."
"I don't understand—"
He took a slow sip of wine, eyes never leaving mine. "Attention. Money. Maybe a name to climb with. You picked the wrong man for that game."
The words hit like ice water.
My throat tightened. "No, I think you misunderstood—"
"I don't misunderstand," he said softly, dangerously. "You shouldn't be here. Leave."
"I just— I didn't mean to—"
He turned slightly, gesturing with a flick of his fingers. "Security."
Two men stepped forward instantly.
Heat flooded my face — every eye in the room seemed to turn.
"I'm sorry!" The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "I didn't know this was restricted. I was just—"
"What's going on?"
Jisan's voice broke through the tension. He appeared from behind the guards, slightly breathless.
When he saw me, his expression softened immediately.
"Hazel? I was looking for you."
Then he turned to Ariyan, respectful but firm. "She's with me. My guest."
The guards stepped back at once. The entire atmosphere shifted.
For a second, Ariyan's eyes lingered on me — sharp, unreadable, but no longer cold in the same way.
Something flickered there, something almost… curious.
"Your friend," he repeated slowly. "I see."
Jisan gave a small, polite smile. "Yes, sir."
Ariyan's gaze held mine one last time.
Then he said quietly, "Next time, stay close to the right people, Miss…?"
I hesitated. "Hazel. Anya Hazel."
He nodded once. "Miss Hazel."
A pause. "You don't belong here."
The words weren't cruel — just true. But they still cut deeper than they should have.
Jisan led me away, his hand gently on my arm.
"Hey, it's okay," he murmured once we were outside the VIP area. "He's just… that kind of person. Don't take it personally."
I nodded, but my heart still thudded painfully.
I didn't even know him — and yet, somehow, his words lingered, sharper than anyone else's.
For the rest of the night, I couldn't stop hearing them.
You don't belong here.
And maybe… he was right.