Chapter 5 Butterflies in the Dark  

The lights dimmed. A hush spread through the great hall before the stage burst out into chaos of noise and colour.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the MC's voice crashed out, smooth as silk and playfully lilted with an infinitely faint accent so that each syllable sounded like a note in a song. He was a lean, tall youth with a velvet jacket over his shoulders, his presence flamboyant but not strained, his charm irresistible. He grinned as if he had the whole room in his pocket. "Welcome to the year's party—The Delula Fashion Feast! This evening, you are not just guests, you are witnesses to history stitched in fabric, in hue, in madness. So buckle up your seatbelts, sip your champagne, and let us celebrate art made flesh!"

The crowd came to life—laughter, whistles, cheers that crescendoed into a wave and crashed on the glitzy runway.

The music hit, heavy bass blended with seductive violins, and models began to walk the catwalk. They were all dressed in a designer's dream—sheer dresses that appeared to glow like liquid starlight, angular suits that sliced through the air, outrageous designs that dared the imagination to keep up. The audience gasped, applauded, and some even stood, their voices lost in awe as the spectacle unfolded.

But Ethan did not move.

He sipped his wine slowly, his ocean eyes tracking every movement. Around him, Chloe clapped wildly, her grin never fading, her voice squealing with delight every time a model turned at the runway’s end. To Ethan, though, it felt like stepping into another world entirely.

A world where people could be free.

Here, no one hid. Men laughed with men. Women kissed women. Others blurred lines completely, bold in sequins, lace, leather, their truths shimmering as loudly as the lights. The room felt alive with unfiltered authenticity, and Ethan realised with a pang that this was a world his mother would never, ever approve of.

Madison Wellman’s voice surged in his head, echoing with that intoxicating strength that had bent governors, CEOs, even generals to her will. “You should be running for president now, Etty. We have the means, the position, the stature! You are my winning card, my legacy. And that means, Ethan Wellman, you can’t afford scandal—not a whisper, not a shadow.”

He remembered her almost slurry tone, the way her words could sway crowds and command loyalty. She wasn’t just a woman; she was a force. Beauty and ambition are woven into one unstoppable storm. Ethan admired her, feared her, loved her and sometimes all at once.

And deep down, he knew… her fire lived in him, too. The same drive. The same hunger to succeed. To be the son she wanted him to be—the son who would sit in office one day, not in a scandal. The son who would lead Nashville, maybe even the country.

But the secret he held was getting heavier. Stronger. Louder.

He had refused for years to accept what flickered beneath the surface. He wouldn’t name it. He wouldn’t think it. Gay was a word he never let take root in his mind. Yet here he was, watching men laugh, watching them exist without shame, watching them live, and something inside whispered—maybe just a taste…

The thought jolted him like a slap, and just as violently, he shoved it down.

No.

No scandals. Not now. Not ever. He would not ruin what his mother had built. He would not taint the Wellman name. He would marry Ann, just as he’d promised. He would run in the coming election. He would be everything his mother expected, everything the world demanded.

Ethan’s jaw tightened as he drained his glass, eyes fixed on the runway but not truly seeing it anymore.

The music pounded, the crowd cheered, and Chloe leaned toward him, her grin radiant. “See, Ethan? Isn’t this amazing?”

Ethan forced a smile, but in his chest the storm raged.  Ethan’s thoughts shattered the moment the MC’s voice boomed again, velvet-smooth and dripping with flair.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen—” he paused, letting the anticipation sizzle through the hall, his lips curling into a sly wink that sent the crowd roaring—“join me in welcoming our very own sensational fashion icon. The legend himself. Multi-time award winner, record breaker, master of craft and—” the MC leaned toward the mic, voice dropping playfully, “owner of dangerously charming good looks… Beauty by TIMMMM DORIANNN!”

The room erupted. Cheers, whistles, screams that shook the chandeliers.

Beside Ethan, Chloe had transformed into a screaming doll, her voice shrill with unrestrained devotion. “Tiiiiiiimmmm Doriiiaaaan! Oh my GOD!” She bounced in her chair like she’d just seen the second coming, her phone already lifted high, recording every frame. One would think Tim was her long-lost missing rib.

The lights dimmed.

A hush settled over the crowd, followed by the slow, deliberate beat of music. Then the runway came alive.

Models glided forward, each step a declaration, each outfit a story. Ethan found himself… watching. Truly watching. Earlier designs had blurred together, just fabric on beautiful bodies. But these… these were different. Men walking in bespoke suits that combined tradition and innovation. Women billowing in black dresses like liquid, cutting and soft simultaneously. And the unisex style—layered silks, structured leather, metallic sheens they defied conventions, daring anyone to categorise them. Every stitch meant something. It was as if the designer was expressing himself in threads and fabric, speaking truths too thick to be said. Ethan felt it, deep in his chest, unsettling him.

“Aren’t they beautiful, ET?” Chloe breathed, her eyes wide, phone flashing as she snapped shot after shot. “Oh my God, I need these in my next wardrobe collection.”

Ethan only smiled faintly, unwilling to let her see how shaken he felt.

Then, as the last model exited the stage, the MC’s voice rose again, full of triumph.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the genius behind the art. The incomparable… TIM DORIANNNN!”

And that was when Ethan forgot how to breathe.

Tim emerged from the shadows like a vision. Slightly tall, though not as tall as Ethan, his frame was slender but commanding, every line of his suit tailored to perfection. His skin glowed under the lights, smooth as freshly poured cream. Hair the shade of auburn—reddish-brown, catching hints of gold curled to precision, each curl falling as though it had been sculpted by hand.

From Ethan’s seat, he could see Tim’s face clearly. Sharp yet gentle, features carved as if the Creator had spent an eternity ensuring not a detail was amiss. His smile radiated across the room, warm enough to melt marble, and when he lifted his hand to wave at the crowd, the air itself seemed to hold its breath.

Ethan felt something flutter violently inside him—warm, dizzy, terrifying. Butterflies he never believed he could feel, let alone for another man. He forced his jaw still, clapping politely, keeping his face straight. But inside, he was unravelling.

Chloe, on the other hand, was chaos unleashed. She jumped up and down, squealing like a teenager at a boy-band concert. “I LOVE YOU TIMMMM! OH MY GODDD!”

Ethan couldn’t help it; he smiled. Because she was right. Every word she’d poured into his ear for months hadn’t even come close to capturing this moment.

Tim Dorian wasn’t just handsome. He was otherworldly. Like a fallen angel, forgotten in heaven and allowed to walk among mortals. And Ethan knew, with a sinking twist in his stomach, that his car was already forfeited. Chloe had won the bet.

But more dangerously, Tim had just won something else. Something Ethan wasn’t ready to admit.

Tim exited the runway with a grace that lingered in the air even after he was gone. For the briefest second, Ethan could have sworn—sworn—that Tim’s eyes flickered toward their table. His chest tightened, but before he could process it, the MC fanned himself with exaggerated flair.

“Wooooooow!” he cried dramatically, as if Tim had left the heater cranked on high. “Ladies and gentlemen, can we talk about that man? Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous!”

The crowd erupted again, screaming, clapping, stomping.

Beside him, Chloe dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Actual tears. Ethan blinked in disbelief. She’s crying? For this guy? He shook his head. Such a drama queen.

Then Chloe turned to him, her face flushed with joy. “So? What do you think, ET?”

Ethan only rolled his eyes, lips pressed tight, refusing to give her the satisfaction of an answer, but the MC saved him, voice booming again.

“And now, as we come to the end of this dazzling show… You all know what’s next!” He drew the words out, teasing the crowd. “That’s right—dance, dance, and partyyy!”

The hall roared with laughter and cheers.

“And of course,” the MC added, voice dipping low and sultry, “we’ve got the top money bags in the building tonight… sooo my beauties, don’t forget to network." Then he ended with a wink.

The crowd howled knowingly, but Ethan stiffened. Something about the MC’s tone told him he wasn’t talking about business cards. His suspicion was confirmed when his eyes caught, across the room, the same chocolate-skinned guy from earlier—the one in flamboyant attire and subtle makeup. The man winked again, this time dragging his teeth slowly across his bottom lip.

Ethan snapped his gaze away instantly. Yup. I was right.

But the MC wasn’t done. He leaned in, grinning like a magician about to unveil his best trick.

“And one more thing, people—” the pause was deliberate, electric “—to crown this unforgettable night, the one and only Tim Dorian will be having a special after-dinner with one of our Premium tables!”

The crowd screamed so loud the chandeliers rattled.

Even Chloe gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh my God, ET, did you hear that?!”

Ethan felt his whole body tense, though he kept his face carefully blank. His heartbeat betrayed him, racing as if he were already chosen.

The MC gestured grandly as another attendant approached, carrying a gleaming golden vase.

“In this jar,” the MC announced, “are the numbers of all our Premium tables. One lucky table—one lucky seat will be joining Tim Dorian himself for dinner!”

Chloe scrambled for their card and turned it toward Ethan, her eyes wide as saucers. The number gleamed in elegant print: 007.

“Oh my God, ET!” Chloe squealed, clutching his arm. “It has to be us—it has to be!”

Ethan exhaled slowly, dread curling in his gut. Because part of him wanted it more than anything… and another part was terrified of what it would mean if it really was them.

On stage, the MC plunged his hand into the jar, swirling the numbers theatrically.

"Are you readyyyyy?" his voice stretched out, getting the crowd on its feet. The atmosphere was alive, charged with anticipation. Ethan's nerve endings hummed, every single nerve sensitised.

The drums were pumping low and sombre.

The MC pulled out a slip of paper, holding it high.

“The number is…”

And just like that, the entire room went still.