The fashion gala .
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Ariel stirred awake after a deep, peaceful sleep—something she hadn't experienced in a long time. Sunlight spilled softly into her room, and for once, there were no disturbing dreams or haunting visions. Just quiet. Calm.
She finally got out of bed, descending the stairs with a yawn. It was already late morning—technically brunch. Missy was curled up on the couch watching a dramatic TV show, popping popcorn into her mouth, and Xavier—dressed neatly—seemed to be getting ready to head out.
"There you are, Sleeping Beauty," Missy teased, without taking her eyes off the screen.
"I needed it," Ariel replied with a stretch. "I haven't slept like that in forever."
They shared breakfast together in a relaxed way. Over bites of toast and sips of juice, they gossiped about school, the buzz around the upcoming gala, and Ariel's terrifyingly demanding boss. Ariel kept the details light—she didn't say who asked her to the gala, only that she'd been invited and had agreed to go.
Xavier barely looked up. "I'm just glad Audrey's not into all that gala stuff," he said with a smirk. "No dressing up, no drama."
Missy raised a brow. "Still, be careful with whoever this is, Ariel."
Ariel shrugged off the warning, brushing a few crumbs from her lap. "It's not that deep."
Time passed slowly after that. Ariel lounged around with Missy, helping her scroll through outfit ideas, giggling over random TikToks, and occasionally texting her friends to calm her growing nerves.
Then at exactly 4 PM, the doorbell rang. The makeup artist had arrived—dressed in all black and carrying a suitcase of expensive tools. He stepped in with confident flair, immediately sizing Ariel up with an approving nod.
"Let's get this queen ready."
She was led to a seat near the window where soft natural light made her skin glow. Brushes moved with magic-like precision, colors blended to perfection. Her hair was styled into a soft, elegant flow, with subtle waves that gave her a divine kind of grace.
Then came the dress—carefully unboxed from the designer packaging Allan had sent the day before. It was a soft gold gown, handcrafted with glistening detail and intricate embroidery that shimmered as it caught the light. The fabric hugged her figure gently, flowing down in a way that made her look like royalty.
The heels were sleek, strappy, and perfectly matched to the dress. Inside another velvet-lined box was a delicate set of jewelry: a pair of teardrop earrings and a fine gold necklace with a small gemstone at the center. To top it off, an elegant bag with gold accents completed the look.
Even Missy paused her show.
"Okay, wow," she said, eyes wide. "Whoever this guy is... he has serious taste."
Ariel looked at herself in the mirror and hardly recognized the girl staring back. She looked radiant, refined—and strangely confident.
And though she wouldn't say it out loud, she felt the same thing stirring inside: He knew exactly what would fit me. Allan Wallace had seen something in her no one else had. And she wasn't sure whether to be flattered—or scared.
By the time the clock struck 6:45 PM, Ariel was ready—nervous, excited, and more than a little breathless. She stood near the front window, peeking out behind the curtains for the third time that minute. She wasn't the only one keeping watch.
From behind her, Missy tiptoed dramatically, holding a half-eaten bag of popcorn, trying to peer through the same window. "Move over," she whispered with mock seriousness. "I wanna see this mysterious date of yours in HD."
A sleek black car pulled up in front of the house. At first, only the driver stepped out. But a moment later, the passenger door opened, and there he was—Allan Wallace.
He didn't just step out; he arrived.
Wearing a tailored black suit with subtle silver embroidery on the lapels, Allan looked like he'd walked straight out of a runway show. His dark hair was styled perfectly, and those golden eyes? They found Ariel's window like they knew she was watching.
Missy gasped. "Oh. My. God. Girl, he's hot-hot. Not just cute-in-a-suit hot—he's illegal."
"Shhh!" Ariel shoved her away with a playful laugh, nerves fluttering in her chest.
Moments later, Allan was at the door. When Ariel opened it, he stood still for a second, eyes sweeping over her from head to toe. His gaze wasn't hungry—it was stunned.
"You look... breathtaking," he said, voice lower than usual, like he didn't want to break the magic.
The dress he'd picked for her fit like it was made just for her golden gown, with a graceful off-shoulder design that flowed down into a shimmering train. The shoes sparkled beneath, heels high but elegant, and the jewelry glowed subtly against her skin. In her hand was a designer clutch—sleek, expensive, and absolutely perfect.
"I knew it would suit you," Allan continued, stepping closer, "but this? You've completely stolen the night before it's even started."
Ariel lowered her eyes, heart thudding. "Thank you."
He held out his hand. "May I?"
She took it, and his fingers closed gently over hers—not tight, not rushed. Just right.
"Careful," he murmured as he helped her down the steps. "I'd carry you if those heels betray you."
Missy was still at the window, now crouched awkwardly behind the curtain like a spy, mouthing, 'Oh my god' at her sister.
Allan opened the car door for Ariel himself. "Tonight's yours," he said as she settled inside. "No stress, no rules, no pressure. Just be yourself. You deserve this."
He slid in beside her, turning toward her completely, like no one else in the world existed. "And I wasn't joking when I said I'd come get you myself," he added, smirking slightly. "I didn't want anyone else seeing you first."
Ariel laughed softly, nerves slowly giving way to the strange warmth of his presence.
Absolutely! Here's a richly detailed description of the fashion gala and Eleanor's grand entrance, leading up to Allan and Ariel's dramatic arrival:
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The Gala.
It wasn't just an event. It was the event of the season.
Held in the heart of the city, the gala was hosted at Le Montéverre, an opulent architectural wonder suspended with glass walkways and cascading crystal chandeliers. The entire venue shimmered like a diamond under the moonlight, with light bouncing off every surface like a celebration of wealth and excess.
Luxury cars lined up outside the entrance, each one glossier than the next. Paparazzi lined the red carpet like a sea of black, their cameras flashing nonstop as elite socialites, fashion tycoons, celebrities, and politicians arrived one by one, each vying for attention, each wrapped in couture and mystery.
Waiters in white gloves served champagne to guests in custom tuxedos and dresses that cost more than entire apartments. Journalists with microphones hovered near the VIPs, hoping for a quote or a scandal.
Then came the moment that quieted even the background symphony.
Eleanor arrived.
With her signature feline poise, she stepped out of a sleek pearl-white Rolls Royce, followed closely by her two best friends—Daisy in a feathered lilac mermaid gown, and Selen in a sultry black velvet number with diamond accents.
But it was Eleanor who stole the spotlight, as always.
Her gown was a hand-stitched couture piece straight from Paris—rose gold silk threaded with real golden embroidery, cut in a regal high slit that revealed laced-up heels and miles of polished legs. The neckline was daring, the back was open, and the delicate cape attached to her shoulders flowed behind her like she belonged to royalty.
Her hair was swept up into a soft crown braid, laced with pearl pins, and her ears carried rare diamond drop earrings that sparkled with every turn of her head.
The press surged forward.
"Eleanor! Over here!"
"Who are you wearing?"
"How does it feel being the most anticipated guest of the night?"
With a dazzling smile, she faced the cameras. "This is custom Léo Noire. Flown in from Paris, of course. No one in this hemisphere has it. I needed something... deserving of tonight."
Just as she struck a pose for the flashing bulbs, the mood shifted.
Cameras turned. Paparazzi leaned forward. A new sound buzzed through the crowd like electricity.
A sleek black car pulled up. And from it stepped—
Allan Wallace.
Tall, composed, elegant in a charcoal-gray tux with obsidian-black lapels and a brooch that looked like ancient royalty. The crowd already murmured at the sight of him.
But then came her.
Ariel.
And the world stopped for just a moment.
She emerged from the car like a whispered legend. Her midnight-blue gown shimmered under the lights, hugging her figure perfectly and trailing behind her like liquid stars. Her makeup was soft but flawless, emphasizing her warm hazel eyes and her soft glow. The expensive heels elevated her walk, but it was the confidence in her poise that made jaws drop.
Her silver-streaked hair was elegantly styled, framing her face like a halo, while the designer bag in her hand and the delicate jewelry on her skin whispered wealth—but not old money. New, unexpected magic.
Eleanor's smile faltered just slightly.
One of the paparazzi turned away from her, shouting, "Who is that with Allan Wallace?"
The questions came like bullets, flashing lights now fixed on Ariel.
Eleanor blinked. "Excuse me," she muttered, trying to recover her moment.
But it was already gone.
Allan held Ariel's hand tightly, guiding her up the red carpet without so much as a glance toward the crowd. His full attention was on her—eyes gleaming, smile low and private, like they shared a secret no one else in the world could touch.
And somewhere deep in the crowd, Eleanor's fingers clenched slightly around her clutch.