Eldur's POV
The moment her perfume hit the air, my body went rigid.
And not in a good way.
This wasn't the kind of scent that drifted in like a whisper and made you want to breathe it in again. No—this was aggressive. Loud. Manufactured to impress, not invite. It clung to the air like static, thick and artificial, a chemical attempt at elegance. Too sweet. Too sharp. Too fake.
Just like her.
Nova's mother.
She waltzed in like she owned the place, flanked by people who looked like they'd just walked off the cover of a fashion magazine—laughing loud, dripping in luxury, every step a performance. The restaurant didn't just go quiet. It dimmed. Even the chandeliers seemed to hesitate, their light faltering under the weight of the gold gowns and razor-sharp suits sweeping past us. The air shimmered with diamonds and ego.
And in the center of that high-society storm was her: Emily.
Nova's mother.
