The crimson-lit box above the opera glowed like a slow-burning ember. The play onstage had intensified—the actor and actress now tangled in a crescendo of romance and sensual foreplay, limbs entwined in artful longing, breathy lines whispered between kisses, clothes forgotten somewhere offstage. Yet it was all choreography—no full consummation, just the mounting tension of passion denied.
And Elowen Grantham could barely breathe.
She sipped her wine too fast, hoping to cool her rising flush. But instead, it deepened—cheeks hot, heart fluttering, thighs clenching subtly.
Julian's eyes never left her.
"Seems Seraphine enjoys introducing you to a new kind of wine every evening," he said, eyes gleaming.
Elowen froze, the glass halfway to her lips. "What?"
He tilted his head. "You didn't know that was alcoholic, did you?"
"I—" she stammered, eyes widening. "I thought it was… juice."
His smirk deepened. "Of course."
She muttered, "I'll just get drunk then."
