By the time the car stopped in front of Moretti Tower that night, Aria Lane had already decided she wasn't going to flinch.
If this was the life she'd been cornered into, she'd face it on her own terms. No weakness. No begging.
The sleek black limousine door opened, and the world of Dante Moretti swallowed her whole.
Flashbulbs exploded outside the main entrance. Cameras. Voices. A crowd of press and onlookers had gathered behind velvet ropes, drawn like moths to the sight of the city's most infamous billionaire taking a "wife."
The driver opened her door and bowed slightly. "Miss Lane."
Aria stepped out, her long black dress flowing around her like liquid shadow. Her auburn hair gleamed under the flashlights, her emerald eyes calm, focused, unreadable.
For a moment, even the photographers went quiet.
And then the storm began.
"Miss Lane! Is it true you're engaged to Dante Moretti?"
"How long have you two known each other?"
"Are you really moving into the penthouse tonight?"
Aria ignored them, jaw tight.
A security team flanked her immediately, guiding her through the chaos and into the marble lobby where silence fell like a curtain.
Inside, everything was cool and deliberate. Gold accents, black marble, minimalist chandeliers the kind of wealth that didn't need to shout to be heard.
And there he was.
Dante stood by the elevator, immaculate as ever in a tailored black suit and blue silk tie, his silver eyes scanning her slowly, deliberately.
"You clean up well," he said, the faintest smirk touching his lips.
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"It's an observation."
He offered his arm, and she stared at it for a long second before taking it, if only to show she wasn't afraid.
The elevator doors closed behind them with a soft hiss.
They ascended in silence. The city lights stretched out beneath them, reflections gliding across the mirrored elevator walls. Aria could feel his presence beside her controlled, dangerous, magnetic.
"You didn't tell me there would be photographers," she said finally.
"I didn't tell them either," Dante replied. "They always find me. Consider it a free introduction to your new life."
"I didn't agree to publicity."
"You agreed to marriage," he said simply. "The rest comes with the territory."
She turned toward him. "I don't belong in your world."
He met her gaze, calm and unyielding. "Then learn to survive in it."
The elevator chimed.
The doors slid open to reveal the penthouse, a masterpiece of glass and shadow. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering sprawl of Manhattan, while black marble floors gleamed under soft lighting. A grand piano sat near the window, a decanter of whiskey on a low table beside it.
The space was beautiful, but cold like him.
"Welcome home," Dante said, stepping aside.
Home. The word felt like a joke.
Aria took a slow breath and walked in, her heels echoing faintly. She could see her reflection in the glass walls small against the scale of everything he owned.
A maid appeared, head bowed. "Your suite is prepared, signora. Would you like a tour?"
Aria hesitated. "Suite?"
Dante's voice came from behind her. "Your rooms are down the east hall. Separate from mine."
She turned, surprised. "You're not keeping me in your room?"
He poured himself a drink. "We both know this arrangement isn't about romance. It's about control and appearances. You'll have privacy, and I'll have my peace."
"And the public?" she asked. "What happens when they start digging?"
"Then," he said, swirling the whiskey, "we give them a show."
Her pulse jumped. "A show?"
Dante looked at her over the rim of his glass. "We'll attend events together. Charity galas, fundraisers, board meetings. You'll smile, wear diamonds, let them believe what they want. Every photograph, every headline another layer of armor around what's really happening."
She folded her arms. "And what is really happening, Mr. Moretti?"
He took a step closer. "A contract. A bargain. Nothing more."
"Good," she said evenly. "As long as we're clear."
The tension between them thickened, electric and unspoken. For a long moment, neither moved. The city lights shimmered behind them, reflections of two people standing on opposite sides of a line neither wanted to cross but both were drawn to.
Aria's suite was larger than her entire apartment had been. The walls were painted in muted ivory, the furniture modern and sleek. A balcony overlooked the skyline, and a vase of fresh lilies sat on the bedside table.
She unpacked slowly, methodically. It felt surreal like she'd been dropped into someone else's life.
When she finally sat on the edge of the bed, exhaustion hit her like a wave. But before she could even close her eyes, there was a knock on the door.
"Come in."
A butler entered, bowing slightly. "Mr. Moretti requests your presence in the dining room."
"Now?"
"Yes, signora."
Aria sighed, smoothing the skirt of her black dress before following him.
The dining room was massive glass table, twelve chairs, silver cutlery gleaming under soft light. Dante sat at the head, scrolling through documents on a tablet, a glass of red wine beside him.
He looked up when she entered. "Sit."
She did, though her posture stayed stiff. "Is this part of the show too?"
"Part of the routine," he replied. "We'll be seen together often. It's best we learn how to act civilized in private first."
"I didn't realize you practiced manners."
"Only when they're useful."
She picked up the glass in front of her, her fingers trembling just slightly. "You enjoy this, don't you? Having power over people."
Dante looked at her calmly. "Power isn't something you enjoy, Aria. It's something you own."
"And what happens when someone refuses to let you own them?"
His gaze hardened. "They usually regret it."
The silence stretched again, heavy and sharp.
Aria set down her glass. "You can't control me, Dante. You can trap me, manipulate me, threaten me but you can't own me."
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood, walked around the table, and stopped beside her chair. His presence was overwhelming, the scent of his cologne, the quiet authority in his movements.
When he spoke, his voice was low. "I don't want to own you, Aria. I want you to understand the rules."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you'll learn the hard way."
She looked up at him, defiant. "Try me."
Something flickered in his eyes danger, yes, but also something like intrigue.
He smiled faintly. "You have no idea what you just challenged, cara mia."
Then, without another word, he turned and left the room, leaving her alone with her reflection in the wine glass her pulse loud in her ears, her thoughts tangled between anger and something she refused to name.
That night, Aria stood on the balcony outside her suite, the wind tugging at her hair. The city stretched beneath her, endless and alive.
Somewhere inside the penthouse, she could hear faint piano music soft, deliberate, almost mournful.
She followed the sound until she reached the main room.
Dante sat at the grand piano, fingers moving across the keys with surprising grace. The melody was haunting something between sorrow and confession.
He didn't look up when she approached.
"I didn't know you played," she said softly.
"Few people do."
"It's… beautiful."
He stopped, his hands resting on the keys. "Beauty and pain often share the same melody."
Aria hesitated. "Is that how you see people too? As songs to play until you're done with them?"
He glanced at her then, eyes unreadable. "You think you're different?"
"I don't think, I know."
Dante studied her for a long moment, then stood, his expression unreadable. "We'll see."
As he walked past her, his hand brushed against hers barely a touch, but enough to send a spark through her veins.
When he disappeared down the hallway, the music stopped, but the echo of it lingered in her chest.
Aria exhaled shakily, staring out at the skyline.
This was her life now entangled with a man who ruled the city like a god and treated emotion like a weapon.
But she wasn't afraid.
Not anymore.
Because if Dante Moretti was the devil… she'd learn how to dance with him in the dark.