Book 3-Book 5

The night had the pulse of a city that never slept, and from the terrace of 432 Park Avenue, Manhattan stretched beneath me like a river of gold and neon. Lights reflected off glass towers, and somewhere below, tires hissed against rain-slick streets, a heartbeat synchronized with mine. Inside, the gala roared with opulence-Dior gowns, Valentino tuxedos, Dom Pérignon chilled just so-but the spectacle didn't hold my attention. She did. Johnika moved through the crowd like a subtle flare of flame that refused to be contained. Grey ash-blonde hair tumbled over warm cinnamon shoulders, catching the chandeliers' glow. Her eyes-gold touched with sky-tracked the room with serene intelligence. I had always known she carried something extraordinary, but tonight, the air itself bent around her presence. Her fire was quiet, restrained, but it hummed against the polished marble floor. A whisper to those who could see it.