AFTER THE SPARK

Bella stood still in the middle of Raven Hall, her heartbeat loud in her ears despite the soft music playing in the background.

He had walked away.

But his presence lingered—*wrapped around her like invisible smoke*. Every word he’d whispered, every look, every careful step he took toward her—it had left a mark.

Her chin still tingled where he’d touched it. Barely a brush, really. Just two fingers under her jaw. But it had felt like *ownership*. Not the kind you fight with fists—but the kind that makes you question whether you even want to resist.

She hated how much it shook her.

She hated even more how *she didn’t want to forget it.*

Everyone around her kept dancing, drinking, smiling behind masks. But Bella felt like she was standing in a different world now—*one where the rules weren’t spoken, only felt.* Where looks were sharper than knives, and words were designed to cut you open slowly.

*“Careful,”* said a woman in emerald, smiling behind a golden fox mask.

*“The one you just danced with—he doesn’t play nice.”*

Bella glanced at her, calm on the outside.

*“We didn’t dance.”*

The woman smiled again.

*“Didn’t you?”*

Before Bella could reply, she was gone—swallowed back into the crowd like a whisper never meant to be heard.

Bella didn’t finish her drink.

She placed it on a silver tray and made her way to the exit, her steps steady, her heart not.

But the moment she stepped outside into the cold night air, she froze.

A single black rose lay on the hood of her car.

Wrapped in dark paper. No note.

Just the same faint, smoky scent that had clung to him inside.

Bella’s fingers hovered above it.

She didn’t pick it up right away.

She just stared at it—*at what it meant.*

This wasn’t over.

This wasn’t a meeting.

*This was a beginning.*

And somewhere deep inside her—beneath the anger, the questions, the flickers of fear—something darker stirred.

She didn’t want it to be over.

Not yet.

She backed away from the center of the room, needing space. Needing air.

But even as she moved, she could feel it—*his eyes*, somewhere, still on her. Watching.

Measuring.

*“You're not watching the game, Bella. You're already on the board.”*

The words echoed in her skull.

*So he knows my name.*

Of course he did. Men like him didn’t guess. They knew. They studied. And when they moved—it wasn’t random.

It was strategy.

Bella made her way to the edge of the ballroom, gripping the cold stem of a champagne glass she didn’t remember picking up. Her hands trembled slightly, but her face remained composed. Polished. Untouchable.

She leaned against one of the grand pillars, her back straight, shoulders squared, mask still in place.

But inside, her mind spiraled.

He had chosen her.

Or maybe he had warned her.

She couldn’t tell the difference yet.

All she knew was that no one—*not even Scouty*—had ever made her feel like this.

Small.

Exposed.

Wanted.

Not in the soft, fluttering way she’d read about in books.

This was different.

This was *dangerous wanting.*