The grand ballroom of Paris' most prestigious hotel was dazzling. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high, arched ceiling, their soft golden glow casting a warm ambiance across the room. The floor gleamed beneath the heels of attendees, while tables adorned with lavish floral arrangements of roses and lilies filled the space, accompanied by delicate golden dinnerware. There was an air of elegance and sophistication, with influential figures from across the globe mingling and sharing pleasantries, all under the guise of celebrating poetic genius.
As they moved through the room, Summer's eyes spotted Mitchell, who stood near the side of the ballroom, speaking with a group of fellow poets. Dressed in a sleek gray suit, Mitchell had his usual calm demeanor, his sandy-blonde hair styled neatly. He looked handsome, refined, but his relaxed air made him approachable. His eyes lit up the moment they fell upon Summer.
"Mitchell!" Summer greeted, her voice warm as she approached him, gently pulling Tristan along.
Mitchell's smile widened as he leaned in to give Summer a light hug, carefully minding her injured arm. "Alma, you look stunning as always." His eyes briefly flickered to Tristan, who stood silently by her side. "And who might this be?"
"Oh, this is Trish," Summer introduced with a soft laugh, not catching the subtle tension already forming between the two men. "My plus one for tonight. Trish, this is Mitchell—he's a very talented poet, and a dear friend."
Tristan's jaw tightened imperceptibly, but he quickly masked it with a cordial nod. "Mitchell, nice to meet you."
"Likewise," Mitchell said, though his gaze flickered momentarily, catching the coolness in Tristan's eyes. It didn't escape him that this 'Trish' wasn't particularly thrilled by his presence. But Mitchell was too polite to let on, offering his hand with a smile. Tristan shook it briefly, his grip firm and restrained.
Even as Summer chatted easily with Mitchell, Tristan's mind raced. His instincts told him that Mitchell was his rival, even if Summer hadn't realized it yet. The way she smiled around him, the relaxed way they spoke—it irked him. But Tristan, ever the strategist, kept his expression unreadable, though a certain aloofness crept into his demeanor. Mitchell, on the other hand, caught the subtle cold shoulder but remained unfazed, his friendly nature refusing to be swayed.
Just as the tension between the two men remained under the surface, a new presence entered.
Maria Belmont, the spoiled heiress and self-proclaimed poet, strutted into the room. She was known for her dramatic flair and her tendency to use every event as a stage for her romantic pursuits. Tonight, she was clad in a glittering emerald gown that clung to her figure, her dark curls cascading down her back. Her sharp eyes immediately locked onto Tristan, and with a glint of interest, she sauntered over, her intentions clear.
Tristan barely noticed Maria approaching until Summer subtly stepped in front of him. Sensing Maria's approach, Summer knew all too well what the notorious heiress was after. Being rivals in the poetry world, Summer was well aware of Maria's antics and was not about to let her close to Tristan.
"Ms. Maria," Summer said smoothly, blocking her path, "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Oh, Alma Bendita it is," Maria's voice dripped with false sweetness. "I didn't expect to see you… with him." Her eyes flickered to Tristan, clearly sizing him up.
Before Maria could make her move, Tristan's hand slipped around Summer's waist in a subtle but possessive gesture. Summer stiffened slightly, surprised, but her blush gave her away. Tristan's touch was protective, sending a clear message to both Mitchell and Maria. His silent claim over Summer was undeniable. While Summer was flustered, Tristan remained calm, his expression unbothered as if holding Summer like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Mitchell, watching from the side, took note of Tristan's move but remained composed. He wasn't the type to engage in petty rivalry, but he also wasn't blind to the dynamic between Tristan and Summer.
Maria, however, was furious. Her eyes narrowed at Summer, and she muttered something under her breath before stomping off in jealousy. Summer, still reeling from Tristan's touch, finally exhaled, turning to look at him.
"You… you didn't have to do that," she mumbled, her face flushed.
Tristan's lips curled into a smirk, clearly enjoying her flustered reaction. "What? I was just protecting you from a rival poet. Is that not what plus ones are for?"
Summer narrowed her eyes but couldn't hide her blush. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
Tristan chuckled softly. "Immensely."
As the gathering continued, Summer busied herself greeting fellow poets and chatting with old acquaintances, but Tristan was never far behind. While she mingled, he kept an eye on her, subtly picking food from the buffet for her, knowing that with her injured arm, she would struggle to do so herself.
Maria, meanwhile, spotted Tristan standing by the buffet table, and despite his earlier cold shoulder, she wasn't ready to give up just yet. Slinking over, she tried to strike up a conversation, her voice dripping with feigned charm.
"So, handsome, enjoying the party?"
Tristan didn't even spare her a glance. "Not particularly."
Maria blinked, momentarily stunned by the coldness in his voice. She forced a smile. "Well, maybe I could make it more interesting for you."
Tristan's gaze shifted to her, his eyes hard. "It's you who's making me bore here." His words were like ice, cutting through Maria's thinly veiled advances.
Her face reddened with humiliation, and she quickly stormed off. But in her fury, she couldn't help but blame Summer for her public rejection, already plotting some form of petty revenge.
Meanwhile, Tristan returned to Summer, offering her a plate of food with a casual smile as if nothing had happened. Summer, still recovering from the earlier events, took the plate gratefully, her mind swirling with thoughts.
"You're unusually helpful tonight," she teased.
Tristan grinned, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "Well, someone has to make sure you're taken care of."
Summer rolled her eyes but couldn't stop the smile from tugging at her lips. Despite everything, being with Tristan made her feel… happy.
As the event buzzed with lively chatter and soft piano music played in the background, Maria, with her perfectly styled hair and designer dress, stood in a corner, her eyes fixed on Summer—no, Alma Bendita, the star of the night. A smug smirk played on her lips as she discreetly raised her phone to her ear, whispering into it. After ending the call, Maria's gaze lingered on Summer with a wicked glint in her eyes, clearly scheming something. Summer caught the look from across the room but didn't let it bother her. She excused herself and headed toward the restroom.
As Summer entered the sleek, dimly lit washroom, she exhaled, slightly exhausted from the night's event. Approaching the sink, she turned on the water and began washing her hands. Her sharp senses kicked in as she heard the faint click of the door locking from the outside.
Instead of panicking, a small, knowing smile curled on Summer's lips. "So, it begins," she thought.