Heyday: A love story

The Pride Mansion was, as always, drowning in excess. Every inch of the grand ballroom glowed with golden chandeliers, rich crimson tapestries, and centerpieces so extravagant they bordered on ridiculous. The whole affair screamed Lucifer Morningstar.

The man never merely threw a party. He orchestrated a spectacle.

Heylel stood off to the side, absently rolling the corner of an invitation between his fingers. It was gaudy, embossed in red and gold filigree, his and Charlie's names written in bold, glittering letters. It looked more like a royal decree than a birthday invite.

"Dad, seriously. Can't we just have a normal birthday?"

Charlie, standing beside him, gave a knowing smile.

"You know the answer to that."

Heylel exhaled, flicking the card onto a nearby table. Right. He did. This wasn't just about them—it was about the family name, prestige, and the grand performance of royalty.

And speaking of performances...

Verosika Mayday arrived fashionably late.

Not because she was trying to make an entrance, but because she refused to be rushed—especially for a room full of self-important Hell-borns. If Lucifer wanted a show, he'd get one when she was ready.

Dressed in sleek, high-end attire, she stepped into the ballroom, letting her gaze sweep over the gathered nobility. The usual suspects: demons flaunting their wealth, political figures exchanging pleasantries with poison-laced smiles.

Then, to her surprise—Charlie Magne herself.

"Miss Mayday! Welcome!" Charlie's voice was bright, as warm as the glow from the chandeliers.

Verosika barely had time to blink before the princess was beaming up at her, hands clasped in barely-contained excitement.

Well. That was new.

She opened her mouth to respond—half expecting some sweet but painfully naïve small talk—when another voice cut in, smooth and measured.

"Easy, Charlotte. We wouldn't want to overwhelm our guest of honor before she's even had a chance to perform."

Verosika turned toward the speaker and—oh.

He looked like Charlie, but wasn't. Taller, with sharper features, magenta eyes lined with dark, smoky makeup that only enhanced their piercing quality. His platinum blonde hair was tied back, neat and controlled, unlike Charlie's more free-flowing style. His attire was just as refined—Tyrian purple and black, patterns woven subtly into the fabric, expensive but not loud.

Prince Heylel Magne.

Verosika sized him up instantly. Polished. Regal. Controlled. The kind of noble who measured his words carefully and never let anyone see what he was really thinking.

A slow smirk curled at her lips.

"Well, look at you. Didn't realize Charlie had a twin with an actual sense of style."

Charlie sputtered. "Hey!"

Heylel, however, didn't rise to the bait. His expression barely shifted—just the faintest quirk of an eyebrow.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Oh, you should." Verosika let her gaze linger, just for a moment, testing. Most demons—especially men—either tried too hard to impress her or fumbled over themselves in her presence. Heylel did neither. He just... watched her. Steady.

Huh. Interesting.

Charlie, bless her heart, tried to steer things back to politeness.

"We're really honored to have you perform tonight! It means a lot."

Verosika turned back to the princess, waving a hand dismissively.

"Yeah, yeah, it's adorable how excited you are, princess. But let's not pretend this isn't a business deal."

Charlie's face faltered just slightly, but Heylel? He was still unreadable, still observing. Like he saw something in Verosika beyond the flashy persona.

She didn't like that.

She really didn't like that.

Before either of them could say anything else, Lucifer's voice rang out across the ballroom, amplified with just the right touch of theatricality.

"Ah! And here she is—our enchanting star of the evening!"

All attention turned to them.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Verosika barely had time to blink before Lucifer swept in, ever the showman, already gesturing toward the stage.

"Miss Mayday, we are honored to have you here to celebrate such a momentous occasion! And what better way to commemorate this grand night than with a special introduction?"

Her stomach twisted.

She was used to the spotlight—hell, she thrived in it—but this was different. This wasn't her audience, her stage. This was Lucifer setting her up like a piece in his elaborate game, and Verosika hated being anyone's pawn.

Then Lucifer turned to Heylel, eyes twinkling with something mischievous.

"Come now, son. You wouldn't leave our esteemed guest standing here alone, would you?"

Verosika tensed. Oh, he wouldn't—

But Heylel only gave the faintest sigh before stepping forward, extending a hand. Not reluctant, not flustered—just calm, composed, as if this was expected.

And, because she was Verosika fucking Mayday, she didn't hesitate.

She slid her hand into his, nails lightly grazing his palm.

Electricity crackled between them.

Not attraction, not yet. Just something else. Something unreadable.

Something dangerous.

The crowd applauded as Lucifer led them toward the stage, the weight of all of Hell's elite pressing in.

Verosika lifted her chin, donning a flawless, dazzling smile.

Heylel didn't smile at all.

And just like that, the game began.

As they made their way toward the stage, Heylel leaned in just enough for her to hear, his voice low but steady.

"Don't worry, Ve. I've got your back."

His hands stayed well within her comfort zone—no unnecessary touching, no grand gestures. Just a quiet promise.

Verosika didn't look at him, but she mouthed,

"I'm not worried. I just don't like being used."

Heylel's magenta eyes flickered toward her. A beat passed. Then, just as subtly, he mouthed back,

"I won't let that happen."

She didn't react. Not outwardly, at least. But something in the tension of her shoulders eased.

Then, with all the grace of seasoned performers, they stepped onto the stage.

Heylel raised his violin.

Verosika took the mic.

And as the first haunting notes filled the air, she sang.

The murmurs in the grand ballroom faded as the first drawn-out, melancholic notes of Heylel's violin filled the air. The sound was smooth, deliberate—so precise it sent a ripple of quiet through the crowd. It was a contrast to the gilded excess of the party, something raw threaded beneath its elegance.

Then, Verosika stepped into the light.

She owned the stage like she was born for it, chin lifted, shoulders back, eyes smoldering as she took her place before the mic. The opening chords curled around her like smoke, seductive and slow. And then—

"He left no time to regret..."

Her voice was sultry, low, dragging the lyrics out like a half-lidded gaze. She moved with purpose, swaying in time with the melody, letting the weight of the song settle into her limbs.

From the moment she started singing, she felt it—herself, the persona she'd built over centuries, wrapping around her like armor. Gone was the woman who still caught herself thinking about him—Blitzø, that fucking bastard. Here, on stage, she was untouchable, irresistible, in control.

Her fingers ghosted along the mic stand, her lips brushing too close, teasing the audience with a knowing smirk. And just for the hell of it, she glanced toward Heylel, who stood just off to the side, violin resting against his shoulder between strokes of the bow.

His expression remained carefully unreadable, but—

There.

A faint shift. Not in his face, not in his posture—but in his eyes.

That soft magenta hue was shadowed, darkened just slightly, an almost imperceptible tension hidden beneath his careful restraint.

Interesting.

Verosika let her gaze linger, tilting her head as she dragged out the next lyric.

"Me and my head high... and my tears dry... get on without my guy."

She smirked, slow and lazy, her eyes lidded as she let the words roll from her tongue like a secret she wasn't ashamed of. And still, Heylel remained composed—his fingers moved effortlessly along the violin's neck, his bow gliding with quiet precision—but that shadow lingered.

He wasn't as untouchable as he seemed.

Verosika stepped forward, hips swaying as she let her voice drip into the next verse, letting the crowd believe every word was for them. But a part of her, just a sliver, kept pushing at him, testing, watching.

By the time the song reached its climax—her voice rich, aching, her hand sliding down the mic stand as if she were baring something in that sultry, devastating way only she could—she stole another glance.

Heylel didn't flinch. Didn't let anything slip.

But his grip on the violin was just a fraction tighter.

Verosika's lips curled.

She'd gotten under his skin.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

The final note hung in the air, the ballroom silent for half a breath before the applause crashed down like a tidal wave. Cheers, whistles, the sound of crystal glasses being raised in drunken revelry.

Verosika took her bow, flashing the crowd a dazzling, wicked smile. And then, as she straightened, she turned to Heylel once more.

He met her gaze. Still controlled. Still unreadable.

But now?

Now she knew there was something underneath.

And she couldn't wait to press just a little harder.