I drew in a slow breath, steadying myself.
"I don't dance with strangers," I said, lifting my chin.
"Mm." Amusement curling the edges of his mouth, darkening his already devastating smile. "But that's the thing about strangers..."
He leaned in, not touching me, but close enough that his breath warmed the shell of my ear. "They don't stay strangers for long."
A shiver ran down my spine. I stepped back before he could see it. Before he could enjoy it.
"Good night, Mr. Voss."
I brought my champagne to my lips, walking past him, letting the cool fizz hide the warmth he'd left behind. But, God help me, for some reason I had to look back.
"Do enjoy the party," I added.
He was exhaling a ribbon of smoke, before I heard his chuckle, low and sinful, cutting through the air. It was like he already knew exactly what he was doing to me.
"Oh, trust me," he murmured, his eyes fixed on mine. "I intend to."
I didn't bother waiting to hear more. I simply turned, forcing my legs to move before he could unravel me any further.
The music swelled the moment I stepped back into the ballroom. The warmth clashing with the cool air I've left behind, as couples glided across the dance floor in sweeping turns. Silk and shadows, blending beneath the chandelier light.
I slipped my empty champagne flute onto a passing tray, exhaling slowly, willing the sparks under my skin to settle.
"Come, Isolda."
The command cutting through the hum of conversations like a blade. My grandfather was standing just a few feet away from me, surrounded by his circle of loyalists, but his sharp gaze was fixed squarely on me.
He extended his free hand. The gold of his signet ring glinting beneath the chandelier's light. So I forced my feet to move, stepping into their circle.
My grandfather's fingers closing around mine, firm and possessive, as if to remind me who I belonged to, while their eyes followed like vultures. Assessing, appraising, while I pretended not to notice, even as my stomach turned.
"This," Grandfather announced, his cane tapping once against the marble floor, "is my granddaughter, Isolda." His voice carried the weight of legacy and threat. "I'm sure you've all heard of her? She had recovered remarkably well from her injuries."
A few of them nodded, murmuring polite acknowledgements. One smiled, thin and predatory. Every single one of them looked like they were in their middle ages. Tall, broad and sharp-edged in their sleek black suits. Power clinging to them like the scent of smoke and money, as their gazes swept over me with the slow hunger of predators sizing up their prey.
"What is it are you claiming tonight, Signor Lorenzo?" someone asked.
"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Grandfather said, his tone almost idle. Careless, even. As if I'm nothing more than an asset to his growing empire. "She takes after my late wife, Vittoria."
My lips curved into something that resembled a smile, though brittle at the edges. There was a hollowness in his praise, an emptiness that made the words felt more like a statement of ownership than affection.
"She's going to be my heir," he added, pride glinting in his icy blue eyes. Sharp, cold and cutting. A blade disguised as sentiment.
I shifted slightly, lowering my voice so only he could ear. "Nonno, forgive my interruption...but may I ask, what you need me for?"
Because the way they're looking at me just feels wrong. Their stares crawling over my skin like tiny needles, prickling and invasive, as if they were trying to peel me open, layer by layer.
"Right," he said at last, straightening with a low chuckle that made the other men follow suit. His presence alone demanded that kind of mimicry. "Why don't you have a dance with Dario, dear?"
He gestured toward the youngest man in the circle, who looked somewhere around my age. "He's our newly appointed Consigliere in New York. His father passed away just a month ago. You grew up there, you two must have something in common. Go on, cara, don't be shy."
My smile felt practiced by now. Too polished. Empty. But I gave a small nod anyway when Dario stepped forward. His expression confident, movements smooth, like he had done this plenty of times, when he extended his hand to me.
Dario is every inch the classic Italian son, with his sun-kissed skin, his dark hair perfectly slicked back and those deep brown eyes, that looks at me with a mix of charm and curiosity. The kind of man people expected to be dangerous, but well-mannered about it.
I placed my gloved hand in his, the weight of a hundred curious eyes brushing against my spine as he guided me toward the center of the ballroom, where the first notes of a waltz began to play. Soft and sweeping, a melody meant for lovers rather than strangers.
Dario's touch was steady, polite, but it stirred nothing in me. Not the way the stranger's had.
As Dario drew me into position, I couldn't stop my mind from wandering...wondering if Alaric was somewhere in the shadows now. Leaning against a column, a glass of whisky in hand, watching me dance with a man who is as much of a stranger to me, as he is.
Dario's hand settled respectfully at the small of my back, his fingertips resting at the dip where the silk met skin. His other hand holding mine with a practiced precision.
I offered him a soft smile, trying to keep a respectful distance but the dance required us to be closer than I was comfortable with. It's a waltz, after all. It demanded closeness, blurring the line between performance and affection, giving the illusion of intimacy.
And above it all, they've decided to play one of Grandpa's favorite pieces.
A hauntingly beautiful melody that made the chandeliers shimmer, making the room feel like it belonged in another century. And as Dario expertly guided me through the steps, I could feel a part of me starting to drift elsewhere. In another life.
My cheek was resting against a steady, familiar heartbeat. Some loud music was playing from the speakers of the bar, but with the way his arms was wrapped around me, the world was slowly falling away. One hand clasping mine to his chest, the other holding my waist as if I might drift away without him.
His breath was warm against the crook of my neck. His head buried in my shoulder like he have always belonged there. And God, do I love him.
I love him.
I was spinning beneath the chandeliers, the ballroom returning in a rush as Dario's grip tightened, steadying me. My face must've drained of all color, because he leaned in, his voice low and concerned.
"Are you alright?"
I swallowed hard, breath shaky.
That...that was a memory. My first true memory in three years. And I had been...I had felt...so impossibly, devastatingly in love.
"Isolda?" Dario's voice pierced through the fog, warm with concern.
I forced a shallow breath. "Sorry," I murmured, as he guided me through another turn, the room tilting like a slow, glittering carousel. "It must've been the champagne."
"Then perhaps you should stop for the night," he suggested.
"Yes," I said, sharper than I intended. "Perhaps."
We moved through the final step of the waltz, his hand polite and steady at my waist. Gold light spilling across the polished floor. Crystal chandeliers fractured every moment into stars. The entire room swirling around us in color and warmth, and yet, none of it feels real.
And then, just as I came back to face the crowd, my world stopped spinning.
He's here, the man from the terrace.
The stranger.
Alaric Voss.
Standing half in the shadows, half caught by the chandelier's glow like the light itself couldn't decide if it wanted to touch him. His eyes found me instantly, as if he had been waiting for the exact moment I'd look up.
Heat unfurled low in my stomach, as everyone else faded.
Dario's hand on my waist might as well have been air.
Because he didn't even pretend to be polite.
No.
Alaric is watching me like a secret he already owned.