The champagne flute in my hand was trembling, though I tried to disguise it as a casual tilt, the way the polished women around me did — like everything they touched was made for them. I forced my lips into that practiced smile, the one I had worn at every fundraiser, gala, and charity banquet since I was fifteen. The smile that said: Isabella Romano is the perfect daughter of Senator Romano.
Inside, I was screaming.
The ballroom glittered like a temple to power. Golden chandeliers hung heavy with light, throwing diamonds across the marble floor. Politicians in tailored tuxedos laughed with men who were more dangerous than they pretended to be. Women in gowns worth more than cars whispered behind their jeweled fingers. The music swelled, violins and piano, smooth enough to lull anyone into thinking this night was civilized. But I knew better. I knew every deal struck here was laced with greed, every promise poisoned by ambition. And I knew my father was at the center of it all.
“Stand straighter,” he hissed beside me, his hand digging into my arm with the kind of force that would leave bruises no one dared mention. “You’re slouching.”
“I’m not,” I whispered back, tightening my spine until it hurt. His dark eyes flicked to me, cold and sharp as glass. Then he looked away, already calculating his next handshake, his next smile. To him, I was a prop, a perfect accessory to his empire. The obedient daughter who smiled at cameras and made him look untouchable.
I thought I had perfected this mask. Tonight, though, I felt it cracking.
Because someone was watching me.
At first, I thought it was paranoia, the exhaustion of another endless night of pretending. But then I felt it again — that weight, heavy and deliberate, dragging across my skin. Slowly, I turned my head toward the far end of the ballroom.
That’s when I saw him.
He didn’t belong here. That was my first thought. The men around him wore tuxedos and political smiles; he wore a suit that looked cut from shadow itself. Midnight black, tailored sharp enough to slice through the air. His hair was slicked back, dark as ink, though a few strands rebelled against the precision, falling across his brow. His face was carved in ruthless lines, stubble shadowing his jaw, lips set in a firm, merciless line. But it was his eyes that caught me — storm-gray, glinting like steel under firelight.
He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t pretending. He was studying me.
The breath snagged in my throat, sharp as glass. I looked away quickly, heat blooming at the back of my neck. I told myself not to look again. Men watched me all the time — politicians, investors, my father’s friends. Their gazes slid over me like I was an object, a thing. But this was different. This was not the casual greed of men who wanted to own me. This was hunger. Purpose. Like I had already been chosen.
And I didn’t even know his name.
“Smile,” my father muttered again, his hand tightening on my arm as cameras flashed nearby. “You look like a corpse.”
I obeyed, lips curving into the perfect daughter’s smile while my heart pounded so loudly I was sure the microphones could hear it. Out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t resist another glance.
He was still watching. Still waiting.
---
Hours later, the gala thinned, the violins fading into softer music as the crowd shifted toward the doors. My father was still working the room, his voice booming, his laugh calculated. I excused myself, claiming I needed fresh air. He barely glanced at me. Of course he didn’t. In his mind, I had nowhere to go.
I slipped into the hallway, my heels clicking against polished stone. My gown shimmered with every step, a long emerald silk that fit like a second skin. I hated how it clung to me, how it had been chosen for me — everything about me had been chosen. I reached the side terrace, pushed open the glass doors, and stepped into the cool night.
For the first time all evening, I breathed.
The air was crisp, carrying the faint salt of the Hudson. The city stretched beyond the garden wall, glittering with light, alive in a way I envied. I closed my eyes and let the wind sweep over me, pulling the smile from my face, leaving only the truth beneath — the exhaustion, the loneliness, the desperate craving for freedom.
“You don’t belong here.”
The voice was deep, low, smooth as smoke. My eyes snapped open, heart lurching into my throat. He was there. The man in the black suit. Standing at the edge of the terrace, half-hidden in shadow, like he’d been waiting for this moment all night.
My pulse spiked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He stepped closer, his presence devouring the space between us. “You don’t belong here, caged like a jewel for men to admire. You look like you’re suffocating.”
“I don’t know who you think you are—” My voice shook, betraying me. I straightened, lifting my chin. “But you’re mistaken.”
His lips curved, not into a smile, but something darker. “Am I?”
I should have walked away. I should have screamed, called security, run back to my father. But I couldn’t move. His gaze pinned me in place, those storm-gray eyes stripping me bare, peeling away the mask I had worn for so long. For a terrifying, breathless moment, I felt seen. Not as Senator Romano’s daughter. Not as the perfect prop. But as me. The girl beneath the cage.
He leaned in slightly, his cologne wrapping around me — leather, smoke, the faintest trace of whiskey. Dangerous. Addictive. “Tell me,” he murmured, “what’s your name?”
My lips parted, but no sound came out. I didn’t want to tell him, yet I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “Isabella,” I whispered, before I could think better of it.
His eyes darkened. “Isabella,” he repeated, rolling it across his tongue like a vow. “Beautiful. Fitting.”
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady. “Who are you?”
A pause stretched between us, heavy, electric. Then, simply: “Dante.”
The name thrummed through me like a secret, one I wasn’t supposed to hear. Something in the way he said it told me I should have recognized it. That it meant something. That it was dangerous.
Before I could respond, footsteps echoed down the hall behind me. My father’s voice, sharp with irritation: “Isabella? Where are you?”
I spun toward the sound, panic rising. When I turned back, Dante was gone. The terrace was empty, shadows swallowing the place where he had stood.
---
I barely slept that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. Dante. The way he looked at me, like I was already his. The way he spoke my name, low and sure. My body burned with fear, but something else too — something I couldn’t name, something that scared me more than anything. Desire.
The next day passed in a blur of meetings and obligations. My father was in a foul mood, snapping orders, slamming doors. I kept my head down, my lips sealed. But by evening, I couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on me again. I told myself I was imagining it. That Dante had been nothing more than a stranger at a party, someone I would never see again.
I was wrong.
When I left the senator’s mansion that night — slipping out for air, desperate for even a few minutes of freedom — the street was quieter than usual. Too quiet. My heels clicked against pavement as I moved toward the waiting car, the driver standing by the door. That’s when I noticed it.
The black car parked across the street. The men leaning against it, suits sharp, eyes sharper. Watching me.
My stomach flipped, dread sinking heavy. I glanced back toward the mansion, but the lights were far, the laughter muffled. I was alone.
The driver opened the car door for me, but his smile was wrong. Too tight. My chest tightened, breath catching. Then I felt it — the shift in the air, like prey realizing the predator had already closed in. A shadow moved behind me, tall and deliberate.
And then, a voice. Low, familiar, inevitable.
“Going somewhere, Isabella?”
I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs as I turned slowly. Dante stood only feet away, his storm-gray eyes locked on me, his presence overwhelming. Around him, his men closed in, silent and sure.
The last thing I saw before strong hands seized my arms was his expression — calm, certain, like a king reclaiming what was already his.
Then the world went black.