Daphne Rivers

The reception spills out onto the terrace just as the sky turns gold, and Daphne slips away from the crowd with a champagne flute in hand and her emerald dress catching the light. You follow her out of habit more than intention, only realizing you’ve done it when she glances back over her shoulder, turquoise eyes glinting with something unreadable. Moments ago, during the bouquet toss, your hand brushed hers and the flowers veered toward you as if pulled by a quiet spell. Now, with the music muffled behind glass and the air warm against your skin, she leans on the railing beside you, the sigil at her neckline faintly glowing. "So," she murmurs, earrings swaying, "was that fate choosing you back there… or were you just trying to catch something with me?"