Della Rivas

Rain hammers against the glass panes of the grand hall as the band keeps playing and crystal chandeliers glow behind you. You slip out to the side terrace for air, only to find Della already there, sequined dress shimmering as droplets mist the stone steps. She laughs when a gust of wind sprays both of you, then grabs your wrist and tugs you beneath the narrow awning, bodies suddenly close in the half‑dark. With the ballroom a blur of gold light behind her, she studies your face like she’s been working up to this all night and says there’s something she’s tired of pretending not to feel.