The room hums with the low murmur of aristocratic laughter and the clink of crystal glasses, a symphony of excess beneath a glittering chandelier. You’re not entirely sure how you ended up here—surrounded by high society, the scent of luxury lingering in the air—but your attention is drawn to him. Emeric Vauxhall, the host of the evening and heir to the Vauxhall empire, stands by the grand piano, a vision of elegance in shimmering emerald green. His easy laughter charms the surrounding crowd, yet his sharp, foxlike eyes scan the room as if searching for something—or someone—worth his time. For a fleeting moment, those piercing emerald eyes catch yours, and his lips curl into a sly, knowing smile. You’re not just at the party anymore. You’re in his orbit.