The ballroom quieted the way oceans do before a tide—softly, inevitably.
From the marble staircase above, An Ning appeared, her hand resting lightly on her father's arm—every step deliberate, unhurried.
The gown she wore was a deep scarlet that caught the light like liquid fire—the kind of red that drew every gaze in the room, commanding attention without a word.
Against it, her skin looked almost porcelain, her dark hair falling in glossy waves down her back, gleaming each time she moved. Her lips—painted the same bold hue—curved faintly, a quiet defiance wrapped in elegance.
She looked like a rose in full bloom—beautiful, untouchable, and very much alive.
The guests forgot to breathe for a heartbeat. Even the chandeliers seemed to hold still, as though the room itself had turned to watch her descend.
There was no emcee, no announcement—just the simple, reverent sound of silk brushing stone and the faint hum of the orchestra fading into silence.
