The Feral Stare

“Now, let’s congratulate the newly engaged couple!”

Cheers and claps erupted everywhere, filling the space with laughter before it was filling with music as people began enjoying themselves. The music was soft, haunting, as if the violins themselves mourned.

The chandeliers glittered like the attainable stars, and the grand ballroom was dressed in gold and champagne light, expensive laughter echoing off the marbled walls. But Noora felt none of it. The air there didn’t belong there for her to breathe.

She smoothed the soft silver fabric of her gown with slip that shimmered delicately, modestly. Her skin beneath was tender, burning while the bruises hid carefully under concealer.

Her eyes rimmed in a liner that hid the storm behind them. If she looked whole tonight, it was only because rage and resolve stitched her together.

Luciano had left his fingerprints in her flesh and soul.

But he would not win.

Not tonight.

As she placed her foot on the first step of the staircase, her breath hitched. Something unseen coiled around her, invisible but suffocating. She knew it!

That gaze.

That impossible, feral stare.

It scorched her skin before her eyes even found it.

Luciano.

He stood by the bar, a glass of scotch held loosely in one hand, his body leaned back like he owned the oxygen in the room. He didn’t blink. His eyes trailed her with the same hatred, rage, disgust—and something worse. Something unspoken that she never understood.

Then her eyes dropped low, on to the wrapped around his right hand.

The same hand that stripped her dignity away from her.

The same hand he’d banged against her door.

The same hand she’d bitten.

The same hand he used to break something that wasn’t her door.

Her heart skipped. Her mouth dried. A flash of that night replayed in the pit of her gut.

Luciano caught her looking. Without a flinch, he slid the bandaged hand into his pocket and turned away.

Coward.

She forced herself to breathe, to smile. She wouldn’t break, especially not under his stare. She could not crumble tonight. So, she lifted her chin higher, gripping her courage tighter with every step down the stairs.

And then—

“Noora.”

Her whole world almost came to a stop for a moment, hearing her name wrapped in reverence from the same voice.

Lucas stood near the base of the steps, his eyes wide with disbelief. And wonder. And a hundred things he’d never said when she needed him to.

She smiled at him softly. Almost too softly.

“You look…” His voice dropped to a hush, as if the words didn’t want to leave him. “You look beautiful.”

Noora felt something twist in her chest. Something she’d buried. She forced a breath past her lips and offered him a broken smile; the one he didn’t recognize anymore.

“Thank you, Lucas. And…” she paused, watching him hold his breath without realizing, “Congratulations on your engagement.”

It landed like a slap. Not loud. Just heavy.

Lucas blinked. The light in his face dimmed. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

Noora could’ve sworn he stopped breathing for a moment.

Then—

“Aww, that’s so sweet of you, Noora!” Cindy’s saccharine voice sliced through the moment like a blade hidden in lace.

She waltzed up beside Lucas, arms coiled through his like ivy choking a branch. Her ring sparkled like a trophy deliberately shoved into Noora’s line of sight.

Floral cut. Pure diamond.

Noora’s favorite.

Her breath caught. Not out of longing. No, that was long dead, but from the cruel poetry of fate. Of betrayal. Of old wounds dressed in velvet.

“Doesn’t it mean a lot to us, Lucas?” Cindy’s voice dipped into mock shyness. Lucas hesitated, as if he was being pulled by two different tides.

“Yes,” he said finally, voice dull, “It means a lot.”

Noora smiled. Sharp and clean like broken glass.

She turned to Cindy, letting her words fall like silk wrapped in steel.

“That ring definitely looks good on your fingers. It’s just like how I imagined Lucas’s taste.”

Cindy’s face twitched. Barely, but it did.

But the smile forcefully stayed—too wide, too forced.

“Yes, I imagined it ‘way before’, and now—look—it’s finally on ‘MY FINGER’.”

Noora’s eyes gleamed. She chuckled like it didn’t matter.

“Indeed. Well, I’ll let the happy couple enjoy their night.”

She turned. Walked past Lucas without waiting for permission.

But just before she vanished into the faceless crowd, she looked back.

Her eyes now wide open now, unguarded, crashed into his.

For one second, the room faded. The music blurred.

And they both recognized it. The devastation. The weight. The love that was always twisted, restrained, and shattered.

And then she was gone.

Lost among the guests like a ghost at her own funeral.

Noora stood near the far edge of the ballroom with a champagne flute untouched in her hand, pretending to sip, pretending to belong.

Whispers chased her like shadows, curling around her no matter where she moved.

“Isn’t that Mr. Charles’s second wife’s daughter?”

“She’s not even officially adopted, right?”

“Foreign blood. Low blood. It’s obvious.”

“Her mother seduced Charles the moment his wife died—disgusting.”

“She’s probably no better. Scouting for a rich idiot in this crowd.” 

Noora didn’t flinch. She’d learned not to. But her throat was dry and her fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. Her face flushed crimson, not from drink but from humiliation. The kind that smothered you in silence.

Across the room, Luciano stood surrounded by men in polished suits, sipping whiskey, owning every breath in the space. He was effortless as if he was born for it and for some reason, the gap between them smothered her, irked her.

And he watching her.

She met his eyes. Held it. Her jaw tightened. His gaze was molten, unreadable, seething beneath the surface.

He clenched his glass hard; hard enough the veins on his forearm twitched. The drink trembled in his grip.

Noora’s breath hitched.

And then—

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” a soft male voice chimed beside her.

She jumped, startled, retreating half a step. A stranger stood there, well-dressed, clean-cut, eyes warm with something she couldn’t name.

“Oh, I’m sorry…” she offered quickly, trying to recover her poise.

“No, no, it’s on me,” the man chuckled, scratching his head. “You just seemed… lost in thought. I figured I’d save you from yourself.”

Noora allowed a small smile. Polite but still guarded.

“I guess I was,” she said lightly, shielding the weariness behind the fake gracious smile she had learned to keep in these parties.

“I’m Simon, by the way. Simon Clark. From the Clark hotel group.”

A flicker of discomfort crossed her features. That name wasn’t unfamiliar. But she extended her hand anyway.

“Noora Veneitte. Charles Richardson’s… stepdaughter.”

Simon’s smile stayed, but his eyes flickered barely a second. Recognition, maybe. Judgment. Maybe not. He masked it well.

“Ah, I’ve heard of you.”

“I bet it wasn’t flattering.”

Simon chuckled. “I don’t believe half of what I hear until I confirm it myself. Makes life boring.” Then he added with a wink, “And you don’t seem boring.”

Before she could excuse herself, he flagged down a waiter.

“Another round?”

“Oh, I—”

“Just one,” Simon coaxed, gently nudging the drink into her hand.

Noora hesitated, lips parting to object. She was a light drinker.

But he stepped in closer, body angled toward hers, elbow brushing her arm. He was trying to be charming. Casual. But it was still too close.

Simon leaned in. “You know, I don’t usually approach women at these things, but something about you is alluring. I hope you don’t min—”

Her spine tensed. She tried to step away—

But suddenly, she was yanked back.

A forceful arm wrapped around her waist. Her body collided against a hard chest. Her breath caught.

Cologne. Spice and storm.

Luciano.

He loomed over Noora’s shoulder; his hand on her waist, possessive, unyielding. His voice was rough and cold as steel but he didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to as if he was unworthy of that attention from him.

“I—Don’t—Mind.”