Aria Lane had been stared at before, by strangers, by art patrons trying to decipher the brushstrokes on her canvases, by men who wanted something she would never give but nothing compared to the eyes waiting downstairs in the Moretti Tower ballroom.
She stood in front of the mirror, breath unsteady, the silk dress Dante's stylist had chosen pooling around her like dark wine. It was far too elegant, far too expensive, far too his. The fabric hugged her waist, flared at her hips, and glittered faintly under the lights, as though she had been dipped in midnight.
She tried to steady her hands.
Tonight was Dante Moretti's annual charity gala.
Tonight, she would attend as his wife.
Fake. Contracted. Forced.
But no one in the city knew that.
A knock at the bedroom door almost made her flinch. Before she could respond, it opened, and Dante stepped in.
He was already dressed for the night midnight-blue suit, tailored to his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the fabric stretching over the tattoos peeking from his collar. His dark hair was styled back, sharp jaw freshly shaven, silver eyes trained on her with an unreadable intensity.
She hated how her pulse reacted to it.
"You're late," he said, voice calm but edged with command.
Aria lifted her chin. "I didn't know there was a countdown."
"There is. My world runs on precision."
"So does mine," she muttered. "You just don't respect it."
The corner of his mouth lifted not a smile, never that but something adjacent to amusement. "Let's go, Aria. The city is waiting to see the woman who managed to tame the devil."
"I didn't tame anything," she said sharply.
"No," Dante murmured, offering his arm. "But they don't need to know that."
Aria hesitated.
If she took that arm, she stepped into the performance. Into the contract. Into his world.
But she had signed away her choice the day her father's life hung in the balance.
So she placed her hand lightly on his arm, pretending the heat of his body didn't jolt through her.
"Good girl," he said quietly.
Her glare could have cut diamonds.
From the moment they arrived at the ballroom, the night turned suffocating.
The grand ballroom of Moretti Tower glittered with chandeliers, polished marble, and the high-pitched laughter of the elite, champagne flowed, cameras flashed, and everywhere she looked, someone was whispering.
Who is she?
That's Dante Moretti's wife?
She's not from any known family.
Where did he find her?
She looks too soft… too innocent… too breakable.
Aria felt her spine straighten with every muttered word.
She hated it.
She hated being judged when none of them knew her, hated the feeling of being inspected, weighed, measured.
Dante walked beside her like a king surveying his kingdom bored, cold, entirely untouchable. He didn't flinch beneath the cameras. He didn't blink at the whispers.
He just kept her hand tucked firmly onto his arm, as if daring anyone to question her place.
A server offered champagne.
Dante reached for a glass, then paused.
"No," he said to Aria. "She'll have water."
A flare of indignation shot through her. "I can choose for myself."
"Alcohol dulls the senses," he said without looking at her. "And you need yours tonight."
She clenched her jaw. "I'm not a child."
"Then don't act like one."
Before she could retort, someone approached.
A woman in a silver gown, tall, sculpted, and smiling with the kind of practiced elegance Aria could never match.
"Dante," she cooed, placing a hand on his brocade lapel. "You didn't tell me you were bringing… company."
Aria felt the slight hesitation before company the disdain coated in honey.
"This is Aria," Dante said simply.
No title. No "wife." No label.
Just her name.
The woman's perfect eyebrows lifted. "Aria… Lane? The painter?"
Aria blinked. "You know my work?"
"I've seen it," she replied with a smirk. "Very… emotional. Tragic, really."
Dante's eyes sharpened. The temperature around them seemed to drop a degree.
"You're speaking to my wife," he said.
The woman stiffened. "I of course. My apologies."
But the apology wasn't for Aria. It was for misjudging her proximity to Dante.
As soon as the woman drifted off, Dante leaned down slightly.
"You handled that well."
"I didn't say anything," Aria whispered.
"Exactly."
Cameras clicked as they walked, the crowd parting in a wave of curiosity and fear.
"Smile," Dante murmured.
"No."
He didn't insist. He didn't need to. His presence commanded enough smiles for ten people.
When they reached the front, Dante placed a hand at the small of her back, possessive, burning, unwelcome and guided her to their private table.
Aria tried not to show how tense she was.
"You're trembling," Dante observed.
"It's cold," she lied.
"It's not."
She hated that he always noticed.
The host stepped up to the stage to welcome the guests. Applause rippled through the hall.
Then Dante leaned close, lips near her ear.
"You did fine walking in," he said softly. "But tonight isn't about walking. It's about surviving."
Her breath caught. "You make everything sound like a battlefield."
"In this world," he said, "it is."
As the auction began, Aria became increasingly aware of all the glances thrown her way.
Some curious.
Some mocking.
Some assessing.
And some, especially from the older men, darkly appreciative.
Disgust curled in her stomach.
Dante noticed.
He always noticed.
Without a word, he slid his hand over hers beneath the table. Not tender. Not romantic. Just… a silent command.
You are not prey.
She swallowed hard, refusing to look at him.
During intermission, Aria slipped away to a quieter corner of the hall, breathing easier with the crowd's attention momentarily elsewhere.
But she wasn't alone for long.
Two businessmen approached her, slick smiles, hungry eyes.
"You must be Mrs. Moretti," one said. "Quite the surprise. He's never brought a woman to these events."
Aria forced a polite nod.
"He must see something in you," the second added. "Though I can't imagine what."
The implication hung in the air.
Aria's stomach twisted. "Excuse me..."
But a shadow loomed behind them.
Dante.
His smile was thin and lethal. "Is there a problem?"
The men paled. "N–no, of course not."
"Good," Dante said. "Because the next time either of you speaks to my wife without my invitation, you won't leave the room with your tongues."
They stumbled away in terror.
Aria stared at him, wide-eyed. "That was unnecessary."
"It was too gentle," he replied.
She exhaled sharply. "You can't threaten people like that."
"I can," he said. "And I will."
She stared at him, frustration burning through her. "You're impossible."
"And you're fragile," he shot back.
Her pride snapped. "I'm not fragile. I'm uncomfortable."
His eyes flashed.
"Get used to it," he said. "This is your life now."
The photographers called Dante to the front for the closing portrait of the event.
He took Aria's hand and led her to the elevated platform. Cameras flashed in rapid staccato.
"Put your hand on his chest!"
"Closer!"
"Look at each other!"
Aria stiffened, but Dante turned her face toward his with two fingers under her chin.
"Breathe," he murmured.
She did.
The flash went off.
And in that moment just a second, Dante's eyes softened almost imperceptibly, silver melting into something warmer, something dangerous.
Then it was gone.
When they finally stepped into the privacy of the limousine, Aria sagged back against the leather seat.
"That was…" she whispered, "…awful."
"That was controlled," he corrected.
"You mean by you."
"Of course by me."
She glared out the window. "Everyone there hated me."
"No," Dante said quietly. "They feared you."
She scoffed. "They didn't fear me, Dante."
"Yes, they did," he said, eyes on hers. "Because you're the only thing in that room they didn't understand."
She froze.
A rare compliment. Backhanded, maybe, but real.
Silence stretched, heavy but strangely peaceful.
Finally, Dante spoke.
"You did well tonight."
Aria turned her head away so he wouldn't see the flicker of warmth that rose unwanted, uninvited in her chest.
Because he meant it.
And for reasons she hated to admit…
She cared.