Book 3-Book 5

The night had the pulse of a city that never slept, and from the

terrace of 432 Park Avenue, Manhattan stretched beneath me

like a river of gold and neon. Lights reflected off glass towers,

and somewhere below, tires hissed against rain-slick streets,

a heartbeat synchronized with mine. Inside, the gala roared

with opulence—Dior gowns, Valentino tuxedos, Dom Pérignon

chilled just so—but the spectacle didn't hold my attention. She

did.

Johnika moved through the crowd like a subtle flare of flame

that refused to be contained. Grey ash-blonde hair tumbled

over warm cinnamon shoulders, catching the chandeliers'

glow. Her eyes—gold touched with sky—tracked the room

with serene intelligence. I had always known she carried

something extraordinary, but tonight, the air itself bent

around her presence. Her fire was quiet, restrained, but it

hummed against the polished marble floor. A whisper to those

who could see it.