The Perils of Eye Contact

"Good," I concluded. "Let's make this gala memorable."

I expected polite murmurs and quick exits, but instead, Nova raised her hand like a kid wanting a bathroom break. "Question by 'prepare everything necessary,' you also mean outfits, right? Because the gala is in two days and my closet's gala-readiness is approximately zero percent."

Jordan visibly blanched. I felt the beginnings of a headache.

Director Nakamura hummed sympathetically, also eyeing her minimalist pantsuit with disdain. "She's right, Miss Ryvenhart. Wardrobe does matter especially if you're presenting publicly."

I glanced at Sera, expecting resistance. Instead, she looked reluctantly intrigued an omega artist recognizing a stage when it was offered.

I surrendered gracefully. "Fine. Jordan, schedule immediate appointments at Valkyrie's. Tell them we need the VIP suite."

His eyes widened, pulse visibly spiking. "Right away, Miss Ryvenhart!"

Sera blinked, clearly not expecting luxury couture today. Nova clapped her hands excitedly. Director Nakamura simply smiled pleased, but restrained.

The system whispered privately, [Host, this sudden generosity could provoke a scandalous headline: "CEO pampers new favorites."]

"Let them speculate," I muttered under my breath, feigning cool composure. "I pay your fees for good optics."

Twenty minutes later, we stood inside Valkyrie's gleaming VIP suite. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors and racks of couture stretched intimidatingly around us, a sparkling ocean of silk, satin, and dangerously expensive taste. Sales assistants hovered discreetly, trained to read credit card limits with a glance.

I mentally pinged the system. "Quick update exactly how obscenely wealthy am I?"

[Calculating net worth... Total current assets exceed approximately 3.2 billion dollars. Wardrobe expenditures of this magnitude constitute negligible rounding errors.]

"Perfect," I deadpanned. "Remind me to buy a small country later."

Nova flitted past, fingers caressing emerald chiffon like a child in a candy store. Director Nakamura gravitated toward structured elegance—rich navy gowns and sleek lines, predictably tasteful. Sera lingered uncertainly near the entrance, eyeing a velvet gown as if it might bite.

"Try whatever you like," I said, deliberately keeping my tone neutral. "This is my treat."

Sera raised an eyebrow, cautious but accepting. "Thanks."

She disappeared into a fitting room with Nova close behind, the latter cheerfully chirping encouragement. I turned to a nearby assistant, nodding toward a rack of suits.

"Something sharp, tailored. Masculine elegance. Minimal frills."

"Right away, Miss Ryvenhart," the assistant replied, pulling out selections with ruthless efficiency.

Minutes later, I faced myself in the triple mirror: a midnight-black tuxedo cut to emphasize shoulders, waist, and quiet authority. Silver cufflinks caught the light like distant stars, tie crisp and narrow. Even I admitted privately that I looked striking.

[Host vanity levels rising dangerously high. Reminder: mirrors do not substitute character development.]

"I look good. Sue me," I muttered silently.

Then, across the room, a fitting room door opened and my carefully maintained composure slipped a fraction.

Sera stepped out in a dress of liquid silver silk, draping gently across her collarbones, flowing like water down her frame. The fabric caught every hint of movement, accentuating grace I'd never truly allowed myself to acknowledge before. Her hair, casually swept over one shoulder, shimmered under boutique lights.

My pulse spiked sharply.

[Alert: hormonal fluctuation detected. Host exhibiting classical signs of physical attraction. Shall I activate an emergency sarcasm protocol?]

I clenched my jaw subtly, reasserting cold indifference. "Quiet."

Sera turned, spotting my reflection, and quickly masked any emotion but for a split second, our eyes met, a spark briefly passing between. I wrenched my gaze away first, feigning boredom.

Nova burst out, clapping gleefully. "Damn, Sera! You look phenomenal."

Sera's cheeks tinted faint pink. "Thanks."

Director Nakamura nodded approvingly. "Perfect choice."

The system mockingly added, [Seconded.]

I ignored it.

—

The mirrors at Valkyrie's had clearly been enchanted by witches with cruel agendas, because the silver gown turned me from exhausted indie artist into something ethereal. Elegant. A gala-goer, not an imposter in glittery silk.

And there, across the boutique, Alessia Ryvenhart stood statuesque in her tailored tuxedo sharp angles and polished composure. The suit transformed her already intimidating presence into something magnetic. Masculine, refined, effortlessly commanding. It was infuriating how much charisma she radiated without even trying.

I watched her silently, hiding behind practiced indifference. The cold alpha who'd humiliated me was slowly giving way to someone more complicated. Less overtly dangerous, but possibly more unsettling.

Nova leaned close, whispering conspiratorially, "Careful, you're staring."

I glanced away sharply. "Just sizing up the competition."

"Mm-hmm," Nova hummed, clearly amused. "She does clean up well. Dangerously well."

"Stop," I hissed, adjusting my neckline to distract myself.

The assistants took measurements, pinning fabric here and there, chatting politely. I felt self-conscious yet strangely powerful under their care. Whatever her motives, Alessia knew how to wield privilege and for once, it might benefit me.

A few minutes later, Alessia appeared, expression unreadable. "It suits you," she said, voice cool but sincere.

"You too," I replied cautiously, matching her neutral tone. "Tuxedos usually scream 'power play,' but it works."

Her lips twitched briefly almost a smile. "Power plays are my specialty. Might as well embrace it."

The honesty was disarming. I searched her eyes for hidden meanings but found only careful, guarded warmth like distant firelight. Before I could reply, Jordan appeared, juggling garment bags and paperwork. "Miss Ryvenhart, all fittings are confirmed. The total bill "

"Just pay it," Alessia interrupted dismissively. "Charge it to corporate."

Jordan nodded hastily, then hurried off.

Nova sighed dramatically, leaning toward me. "That's what billion-dollar confidence looks like, Sera. Terrifyingly attractive, no?"

I elbowed her lightly. "Not helping."

Nova grinned unapologetically. "Wasn't trying to."

We finished adjustments quickly, Alessia remaining politely distant yet attentive. As the assistants whisked away gowns and suits for final alterations, she turned to address us collectively.

"Everything will be delivered tomorrow afternoon," Alessia announced calmly. "Transportation and styling arranged. Questions?"

Silence, except Nova's bubbly, "Nope, just gratitude."

Alessia nodded curtly, shoulders relaxing a fraction. "Then we're done here."

I felt a strange pang at her brusque dismissal then immediately cursed myself for caring. This was a transaction, nothing more. But as I moved toward the exit, Alessia stepped aside, holding the door open an oddly courteous gesture that unsettled me.

"See you at rehearsal," she said quietly, eyes briefly meeting mine again.

"Yeah," I replied softly, startled at how the single word emerged gentle, not sharp.

Nova looped an arm through mine, pulling me outside. The fresh air cooled my burning cheeks, but thoughts still swirled chaotically.

"You okay?" Nova asked gently, dropping the teasing tone. "You look… conflicted."

"I'm fine," I lied weakly. "Just processing."

Nova squeezed my arm reassuringly. "Well, if it helps, you look incredible in silver silk."

I smiled despite myself. "Thanks."

—

As Sera exited, the boutique doors clicked shut behind her, and the system appeared, cheerfully irreverent as always.

[Host displayed abnormal generosity, emotional fluctuations, and heightened attraction responses today. Should I initiate panic protocols?]

"No," I muttered, frowning. "I'm fully aware."

[Careful. Your public facade cracked twice today in her presence.]

"She didn't notice."

[She did.]

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Then I'll manage it better."

[Emotions aren't balance sheets, Host. But I'm here, sarcastically supporting.]

"Thanks," I said dryly. "Very comforting."