🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴋ🛏️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ
ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ᴄʟɪꜰꜰ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ & ʙᴜʀɴᴏᴜᴛ
ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ / ᴅᴀɴᴄɪɴɢ
The night of the gala arrived draped in opulence.
Vienna's old opera house, converted specially for the evening, stood dressed in cascading lights and swaths of fabric that shimmered like liquid moonlight. Black cars lined the curved driveway, their exhaust curling like breath in the chilled December air. Inside, the world’s elite gathered beneath the carved ceilings and golden balustrades, mingling beneath chandeliers that had witnessed centuries of grandeur.
Lando adjusted the cuff of his tuxedo, cut sharply in navy silk, the lapels glinting under soft light. It hugged his frame perfectly—Madam Cho's magic. He could hear Oscar ahead of him, already charming a group of sponsors near the champagne bar. But Lando’s mind wasn’t on brand executives or televised speeches.
It was on a woman with knowing eyes and music in her fingertips.
He spotted her before she saw him. Across the ballroom, near the stairwell draped in ivy and roses, (Y/n) stood in a column gown of deep forest green. It clung delicately to her figure, simple yet striking, the neckline dipping slightly and sleeves whispering off her shoulders like leaves. Her hair was pinned artfully, a few loose tendrils catching the soft glow of lantern light. She wasn’t surrounded, wasn’t swarmed. She stood with a glass of wine, half-smiling at something someone said, present yet somehow distant.
There was an unspoken loneliness to her elegance.
He made his way through the crowd, nodding politely at a few handshakes and greetings. As he neared, she turned as if sensing him, her lips curling into a small, surprised smile.
"You clean up nicely, Mr. Norris," she said, lifting her glass in a quiet toast.
He gave a modest grin. "Thank Cho. And you… you look like a painting."
(Y/n) rolled her eyes, but the compliment landed. "Didn’t know you dabbled in flattery."
"I don’t. Usually. But for you, I think I’d make an exception."
Her expression softened at that, and a quiet moment passed between them.
Lando glanced at the empty spot beside her. "Anyone sitting with you?"
She shook her head. "My table's over there, but it's mostly stylists and people glued to their phones. I escaped for air."
She looked at him, long and unreadable, before tilting her head toward a nearby velvet-lined bench near a massive floral arrangement.
They sat, and the hum of the gala faded slightly into the background.
"So," he said after a moment, stretching his legs slightly. "You play the piano. Work for one of the most elite designers in the world. And casually save strangers from making the worst decisions of their life. Anything else you do in your free time?"
She chuckled, the sound low and warm. "I also make excellent tea, remember?"
He laughed. "Right. Matcha and life-saving wisdom."
(Y/n) glanced down at her glass, swirling the wine thoughtfully. "Why did you really come tonight, Lando?"
He blinked. "Because Zak made me."
"No, I mean here. To me."
He fell silent. Then, carefully, he said, "Because I don’t think I thanked you. Not really. And maybe… because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since."
She met his gaze, and for a moment, the walls between them trembled.
But then she looked away, back at the golden-lit crowd.
"You were in pain that day. I just did what anyone with a conscience would have."
"No, you didn’t. You saw a stranger ready to jump and you ran. Most people would have turned away."
She didn’t respond. Instead, she stood.
He followed her without question, weaving through the opulence. They passed men in velvet jackets, women with glittering diamonds like armor, laughter echoing like music.
Outside the ballroom was a narrow hallway lined with framed fashion sketches and photographs of Cho's most famous works. (Y/n) stopped at a particular sketch, a vintage suit reimagined in cobalt silk.
"I drew that," she said quietly. "First thing I ever showed her. She didn’t even blink. Just nodded and told me to make a sample."
Lando looked at her. "You’re not just her assistant."
"No," she admitted. "I design under her name. I ghost-create half of her men's line. It’s the trade. She gets the credit. I get the chance."
He studied her profile, the way her jaw tensed slightly, not with resentment, but resolve.
"Why don’t you go public? Launch your own line?"
She shrugged. "Maybe one day. Or maybe I’m just not made for the spotlight."
He leaned closer. "I think you are."
She laughed again, shaking her head. "You barely know me."
They paused at the end of the hall, near a glass-paneled balcony overlooking the gardens below. Music floated faintly from the ballroom. The stars above seemed stitched into the sky.
"Do you ever feel like everyone wants a piece of you?" she asked softly.
He swallowed. "Every day."
"Like they cheer when you win, but they never see the nights you fall apart?"
She looked at him, her gaze steady.
"That night on the hill. I didn’t know who you were, not really. Just someone hurting. But I recognized it. I’ve stood on that edge, too. Not literally. But I’ve stared at a blank page for weeks, fingers frozen. I’ve listened to people steal my work and praise someone else. It doesn’t look like your pain, but it cuts just the same."
He reached out, gently touching her wrist.
"I’m glad you were there. That day."
She tilted her head. "I’m glad you didn’t jump."
A violin solo began in the ballroom, slow and mournful.
He looked toward the music, then back at her.
She hesitated, eyes wide.
He extended his hand. "Here. Now. Just us."
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then placed her hand in his.
He pulled her close, not tightly, but just enough. Her hand settled on his shoulder. His other hand held hers, and for a moment, everything else blurred.
They swayed slowly, quietly, beneath no music but memory.
The world continued inside—more toasts, more photos, more noise. But here on the balcony, the silence felt safe. Sacred.
When the music ended, or perhaps when time simply stopped counting, they pulled slightly apart, their hands still joined.
"I don’t know what this is," Lando said softly.
"But I want to see you again."
She smiled faintly. "I never said you couldn’t."
He leaned in, not for a kiss, but to rest his forehead gently against hers. Just that. A breath shared between two people who had stood on very different edges.
Below them, the garden lights flickered. And somewhere, a piano waited.
But for now, there was just this.
🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅꜱ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴍɪʟᴇꜱ🛏️
