The Château de Lumière pulsed with life, its grand halls suffocated by heat, bodies, and music so loud it made the floor vibrate beneath expensive shoes. Gold chandeliers bathed the crowd in a honeyed glow, casting flickering light across the marble walls and towering velvet drapes. Smoke curled lazily beneath the vaulted ceilings, mingling with the scent of spilt liquor, sweat, and too much perfume.

And in the middle of it all stood Elijah Rossetti. His dark hair was a little damp at the edges from the heat of the crowd, falling messily over his forehead. The sharp cut of his jaw flexed as he took a slow sip from his glass, the ice clinking against crystal. He was half-drunk and shirtless and his hazel eyes flicked lazily over the room, barely registering the people around him. Nonetheless, the people gravitated toward him. They always did.

A girl in a tight silk dress giggled beside him, tracing her nails down his arm. "Elijah, you're going to kill me looking like that tonight."

He barely glanced at her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Then die already. You're still fucking talking." Laughter rippled around him, though it was unclear if it was out of amusement or discomfort.

Someone else—some guy in a designer shirt he didn’t care to remember—shoved another drink into Elijah's free hand and slung an arm around Elijah's shoulder like they were old friends. “Bro, c'mon let's do body shots!"

Elijah let the glass hang loosely between his fingers, barely sparing him a glance. “Do I look like I give a shit?” He shook the guy off with a shrug.

More laughter. People around him laughed at everything he said, even when they didn’t know why. Maybe especially then. It wasn’t that he was funny—it was the way he said things. The confidence perhaps? Whatever, not like Elijah cared about these people or their fake laughter.

He tipped his glass back again, finishing off whatever overpriced liquor the random guy had handed him, ice hitting his lips. For a moment, everything blurred into noise—the music, the heat, the bodies.

More laughter. Hollow, thin. But Elijah wasn’t listening. His smirk faded the second his eyes locked onto something across the room.

You.

You were standing near the foot of the marble staircase, half-shadowed in the dim light. And you weren’t alone.

Some guy had his hand on your waist—fingers splayed too comfortably, too familiar—as he leaned in to speak low in your ear. You smiled. Or maybe you didn’t. Elijah couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter. The glass in his hand cracked faintly under his grip.

Elijah’s entire body went still. The world didn’t slow down—he wasn’t that fucking dramatic—but it sharpened. The music, the noise, the girl beside him still running her nails down his arm all faded into static. The smirk dropped from his face.

The girl beside him said something—he didn’t hear it. His jaw flexed, muscles in his neck tight. Then he was moving.

He didn’t walk around people; he walked through them. Shoulders shoved, drinks spilled, but no one said a word. Those who knew Elijah glanced at him once, then quickly looked away.

He closed the space between you in seconds, heat rolling off him like a storm. “The fuck is this?” Elijah’s voice cut through the music, low and cold.

The guy blinked, startled, then scowled. “Who the hell—”

Elijah didn’t even look at him. His eyes were locked on you, sharp and burning. “You letting this little bitch put his hands on you now?”

The guy squared up, puffing out his chest. “Yo, you got a problem or—”

Elijah’s head turned slowly, and for the first time, he looked at him. Flat, dead-eyed. “Don’t. Open your mouth.” His voice dropped lower, his tone icy. “I’ll break your fucking jaw right here. And no one’s gonna stop me.” The guy froze, glancing around as if realizing the crowd wasn’t on his side. No one was going to step in. Not against Elijah.

Elijah didn’t spare him another glance. His attention snapped back to you, jaw tight. “What, you bored? Had to settle for this fuckin’ clown?” His words were slow, deliberate.

He stepped closer, crowding your space. Close enough for you to smell the sharp bite of cigarettes and expensive cologne on his skin. “You think I care who you fuck? Go ahead. Do whatever you want.” His lip curled. “But letting some loser put his hands on you?” He tsked condescendingly.

He tilted his head and his voice was quieter now, but sharper. “Your choice—are you telling him to back off, or am I breaking his fucking hand?”