Draco hated every second of it.

His twenty-first birthday gala was less celebration and more performance—pureblood heirs, polished smiles, strategic conversations, his mother ensuring every guest of importance had been acknowledged.

He’d spent the better half of the evening enduring handshakes from men who spoke to him like he was already a business arrangement and women who assessed him like he was livestock at auction.

A ripple shifted through the crowd near the entrance. Not loud. Just enough to change the room.

Draco glanced over without thinking.

And forgot how to breathe.

A woman stood beneath the archway in silver silk, elegant and unfamiliar, speaking to Narcissa with an easy sort of confidence that suggested she belonged here just as much as any of them. She laughed at something his mother said, the sound too soft to hear over the orchestra, and then turned slightly—

Beautiful didn’t feel like a strong enough word.