The evening settles into deep blue. The sun has long dipped below the horizon, leaving behind only a faint blush of dusk.
In front of the grand three-story theater, Julian stands beneath the glow of antique lamps. He's dressed in a sleek black tuxedo, crisp white shirt underneath, the sharp lines of his suit accentuating his tall frame.
The building before him exudes elegance—sweeping staircases, golden chandeliers, and ornate decorations—each detail echoing the opulence of the 1920s. It's the perfect setting for the Harrison Group's exclusive fashion party.
"Julian," a flirtatious voice calls out behind him.
He turns slowly, already guessing who it is.
"Hi, Lena," he says, offering a polite, restrained smile.
Lena approaches with a confident sway, her lips curled into a knowing grin. She wears a yellow dress clinging tight to her curves, lace trim at the hem brushing her knees. The deep neckline reveals a generous glimpse of her cleavage, catching the soft glow of the entrance lights.
Her eyes roam over Julian—tonight, he's left his glasses behind, and without them, his deep-set eyes and sharply defined features stand out even more under the formal tuxedo.
"You look incredible," she purrs, slipping her arm through his.
Julian stiffens at the touch, just for a moment. But then he notices the couples around them, all walking arm in arm through the gate. It's just part of the show. A fashion party. Nothing more.
It's just an event, he reminds himself. I'm here to observe the styles, the designs. This is for my teaching. That's all.
Together, they approach the entrance.
A pair of guards, dressed in discreet black uniforms, step forward.
"Sir, Ma'am," one of them says, "may we check your invitation cards?"
Without missing a beat, Lena offers a delicate smile and retrieves a gilded card from her small designer handbag. The guard examines it briefly, then offers a courteous bow and gestures them forward.
"Thank you for checking in. Please go in and enjoy your evening."
With that, Julian and Lena step through the doors and into the dazzling world of vintage glamour.
Lena and Julian step further into the heart of the theater, arms linked. The grand hall is alive with movement and murmurs—fifty, maybe sixty guests drifting between white-draped tables, each adorned with delicate arrangements and trays of exquisite hors d'oeuvres.
Glasses clink softly, filled with deep reds and golden whites, while a separate table offers non-alcoholic cocktails served in vintage crystal. Laughter mingles with jazz floating from a live quartet tucked in one corner, their sound smooth and golden, echoing the glamour of the Roaring Twenties.
As Julian scans the crowd, quietly taking mental notes of the ensembles—beaded gowns, feathered headpieces, tailored three-piece suits—a familiar voice calls out from behind.
"Julian!"
He turns and immediately recognizes the warm, crinkled face of Professor Robert, his former mentor from graduate school. The older man, now in his sixties, wears a tuxedo that hangs just a little more loosely than it used to. His silver hair is neatly combed, and beside him stands a dignified woman in a dark emerald dress—his wife.
"Professor Robert," Julian says, a smile breaking across his face. "How are you doing?"
Robert approaches with open arms, then glances at Lena still linked to Julian's side. His brows lift in pleasant curiosity.
Julian nods, ever composed.
"This is my colleague. Professor Lena."
Lena leans in slightly with a smile.
"So happy to meet you. I work with Julian at the university."
"Oh, lovely to meet you," Robert says with enthusiasm, then gestures toward the woman beside him. "And this is my wife."
"It's a pleasure," Lena replies, giving a soft nod.
Robert turns his attention back to Julian, his smile widening with fond amusement.
"Julian, you're as gorgeous as ever. Ten years, and you haven't aged a day."
Julian responds with the familiar, faintly reserved smile he wears like a well-fitted tie—polite, practiced, and effortless.
"Well, thank you," he says, voice warm but measured.
Robert laughs heartily, placing a hand on Julian's shoulder.
"It seems like we're the only ones aging, huh?"
Julian follows along with a faint smile, offering nothing more in response to Robert's compliment. There's nothing he can say.
At least you all can age… and die one day. I can't.
The thought slips through his mind like a shadow, curling at the edges of his lips with a bitter smile he quickly hides behind his glass.
The conversation turns light. Robert, his wife, Lena, and Julian drift into casual talk—how work is going, recent projects, the evolving world of fashion academia. Julian listens, nodding when appropriate, speaking just enough to stay present.
That's when a voice cuts through the warm hum of chatter.
"Grace, what do you think of this theater with this party?"
Julian freezes. It's Harry's voice, the student from his class.
He lifts his gaze instinctively, drawn upward toward the curved staircase that leads to the second floor. Golden chandeliers drip light over marble and crystal, and fountains trickle softly on either side like music.
And then he sees her.
Grace Silver...
She descends slowly, her arm loosely linked with Harry's. Her dress is simple—black, modest, and vintage in design. It brushes her knees with graceful ease, the fabric catching the light with every step. The neckline is perfectly balanced—not low enough to tempt, not high enough to stifle. Understated, but quietly arresting.
Her hair falls in gentle waves, the dark strands curling softly around her chest. She wears almost no makeup, as always, but her lips gleam with a touch of gloss, and her wide, luminous eyes sparkle like stars under the chandeliers.
In that instant, something shifts.
The music, the voices, even the flickering lights—they all seem to dim around her.
For Julian, time stops.
I've always known she was the pretty type… but she's—
He can't even finish the thought. Not yet. All he can do is stand there, watching Grace Silver descend the stairs like a dream made real, and feel something ancient and painful stir inside his chest.
The conversation around Julian—Robert's friendly banter, Lena's soft laughter, the polite murmur of Robert's wife—fades into a blur of meaningless sound. It doesn't reach him. Not anymore.
Because all he can see is her.
Grace.
His eyes stay fixed on her as she walks down the staircase, each step so natural, so unhurried. The soft gleam of the chandeliers above casts a golden halo around her, catching the slight wave in her dark hair, the gentle shimmer of her simple black dress. Everything else vanishes.
On the other side of the staircase, Grace feels the weight of the setting pressing in. The theater is elegant—no, extravagant. This is the kind of place she's only seen in classic films: the kind with soft jazz, marble columns, champagne towers, and women in long gowns. She walks slowly, her arm looped through Harry's, mirroring the style she sees all around her. Everyone is paired off—arms crossed, eyes scanning, lips smiling.
This feels like a party scene straight out of a movie, she thinks, the corner of her mouth quirking in quiet amusement.
She leans toward Harry just slightly.
"Isn't it kind of funny," she whispers with a small smirk, "crossing arms like this?"
Harry chuckles, voice low. "You're the first person to say that out loud."
Grace laughs under her breath. But then she turns her head—and her gaze locks with his.
Professor Julian…?
Professor Julian, standing across the room with his arm linked with a woman in a revealing, tight yellow dress.
Grace's heart gives a small, involuntary stutter. She wasn't expecting him here—not tonight, not in a place like this.
And certainly not looking at her like that.
For a brief second, everything slows. She sees the subtle tension in his posture, the faint pull of something behind his eyes. And then her gaze flicks sideways—to the woman by his side.
She's the one I saw before. At the department office. A professor… probably.
Grace quickly pulls her eyes away, a strange tightness rising in her chest. She doesn't know what to do with the sudden discomfort, the awkwardness prickling at the back of her neck.
"So, Harry," she says, grasping at composure, "how did you really get the invitation?"
Her voice is casual—too casual—but steady. She keeps her gaze fixed ahead, pretending interest, pretending ease. All while she can feel it—his eyes, still on her, watching from across the glittering room.
"Oh, that…" Harry pauses, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. "Well, you'll get to know later."
He gives a nonchalant shrug and Grace doesn't question more because her focus is totally distracted. With her arm still looped through his, she gently nudges him toward the opposite side of the grand hall, subtly turning her back to the direction where Julian still stands.
Why am I acting so weird? she wonders, biting the inside of her cheek. Just go and say hello or something. He's the professor. What's wrong with me?
She shakes her head, as if trying to knock the awkwardness loose, but the tension won't leave. Not while she can still feel the faint burn of Julian's gaze behind her. It clings to her skin like static.
Beside her, Harry glances down, noticing her shift in mood.
"Is everything all right?" he asks, concern soft but clear in his voice.