Angol
The Vale townhouse on Belgrave Square always felt like a mu-
seum of everything I didn't belong to. Marble floors stretched
beneath my feet like frozen rivers of light, and Baccarat
chandeliers hung overhead like captured constellations, each
prism refracting a thousand tiny flames. I moved carefully
through the crowd, my Dolce & Gabbana gown swishing
against the polished stone, Louboutins clicking softly, as if
the sound alone could anchor me here.
My skin, warm cinnamon with a golden glow, felt almost too
alive under the candlelight. I caught my reflection in one of the
enormous mirrors lining the hall and barely recognized the
porcelain perfection staring back at me: flawless, symmetrical,
almost unreal. My grey ash-blonde hair framed my face in soft
waves, tumbling to my shoulders, and my gold-blue eyes-
glass-like and luminous-surveyed the room with detached
curiosity.
I didn't belong here. I never had. And yet, something inside
me hummed with anticipation, like the air itself was vibrating
in response to something unseen. I could feel it before I saw
him.
