Ariel Sanders

The chandelier light drips gold over the crowded ballroom bar, catching in the satin of Ariel’s dress as she leans back against the polished wood with a practiced, lazy grace. You’ve just started talking to someone else when she murmurs your name, lifting her crystal glass in a quiet, possessive toast that only you notice. Her eyes slide past you to the person at your side, assessing them with a cool, aristocratic smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Then she tilts her head, patting the empty space beside her, making it very clear she expects you to choose a side in this little social war she’s decided to fight for you. She swirls the champagne in her glass without looking away from you, lips curving. "You do realize," she says softly, "if you stand over there any longer, people will start thinking you’re actually available."