The moment the waltz ended, Dario loosened his hold, yet he didn't step away. Not fully, at least. Not until the last chord dissolve into applause. And even then, he kept my gloved hand in his, as if releasing it would break some silent expectation.
The room's attention shifted toward us in a warm, eager swell. And he knew it.
Slowly, almost ceremoniously, Dario lifted my hand. His lips brushed the silk of my glove with gentle pressure, warm and deliberate, lingering just long enough for a soft gasp to catch in my throat. A perfectly polite gesture. And yet, it felt perfectly wrong.
The crowd roared with their approval, flashes of admiration and whispers rippling around us like a tide. But none of it mattered.
Because across the ballroom, half-swallowed by all these shadows and crystal light, those green eyes were still fixed on me.
The moment the applause began to fade, Dario finally released me. But instead of stepping away fully, he offered his arm with a small, polite smile. Still aware at the eyes on us, even as we are moving away from the dance floor.
I try to steady myself. To ignore the tingling in my palms, the strange hollowness in my chest from that memory. And the weight of another gaze that I still could feel...somewhere in the dark.
"Bellissimo," Grandpa's voice boomed behind us, warm and proud, far too pleased.
Dario straightened instantly, dropping my arm in a respectful gesture just as we both turned to face him. Grandfather stepped forward with his cane, his smile warm, for once. His associates trailed behind him like obedient shadows.
"You both make a lovely couple," he announced, gesturing between Dario and I before turning to his crowd of associates. "Do you all not agree?"
A soft ripple of approving murmurs rose around us.
I dipped my head, even as something cold and heavy curled in my stomach. I forced a smile, even though it felt tight and brittle, like it might crack if I breathed too deeply.
Dario inclined his head beside me, offering only a quiet, perfectly measured, "Thank you, sir."
Then the chandeliers flickered.
Once. Twice.
The room falling into a soft dimness, gold fading into the cool wash of twilight blue. Conversations tightened and hushed, as everyone turned their attentions toward the stage. Draped in gold, flanked by tall arrangements of red roses.
A single spotlight snapped on.
And a man in a tailored suit, with dark hair and a charismatic smile strode out. His posture bright and confident, as he lifted his microphone.
"Signore e signori," he boomed, his accent echoing across the room. "Distinguished guests, honored families and esteemed friends of the prestigious Ricci lineage...welcome."
Applause scattered through the hall.
"As you all know," he continued, "tonight we gather not only to celebrate the new year, but to also honor a man whose legacy has shaped our world for generations."
The words washed over me like ice.
"A visionary. A leader. A philanthropist. But above all, the very symbol of power and tradition," the host proclaimed, pausing for effect. "It is my honor to welcome the head of the Ricci family, the man of the night himself, Signor Lorenzo Ricci."
The ballroom erupted.
Applause thundering through the gilded hall, as Grandpa leaned toward Dario, murmuring something I couldn't catch. Then, with that effortless charisma he commanded the world with, he straightened against his cane and lifted a hand in greeting. Cheers swelled. Cameras flashed like a storm breaking overhead.
"I want you both with me," he said. Not a request, but an expectation. His gaze flicked between Dario and I, just as the spotlight swept across the room and landed directly on us.
I nodded and slipped my hand into Grandpa's free one, the same way we had entered earlier. An image of unity he was eager to display. Only this time, Dario was stepping in beside me. His palm sliding to the small of my back, resting right at the exposed dip of my dress. Though it did nothing to me, the gesture felt deliberately possessive.
I pretended not to notice.
We ascended the small set of steps to the stage, keeping my attention fixed forward. Every movement careful, measured. Even when I was painfully aware of Dario's touch, of all the eyes on us, the stakes simmering beneath this glittering grandeur.
At the top of the steps, the host stepped forward with a practiced smile, bowing his head respectfully before placing the microphone into Grandpa's waiting hand. His grip, though weathered, closed around it with a steadiness that belied his age.
Eighty-three years, and he still commanded a room like he owned the air we're all breathing.
The applause then softened into an expectant hush.
Grandpa inhaled, his gaze sweeping across the ballroom, lingering on a few familiar faces, loyalists, enemies disguised in velvet and champagne. Then to the shadow by the pillar where the stranger lingered. Alaric.
My breath caught.
"Tonight," he began, "is not just a celebration. Tonight is a reminder."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
"My family has known many tragedies," he continued, not bothering to hide the crack in his tone. "Loss like that would've broken lesser men. Lesser dynasties." He lifted his chin, defiant even against the memories that haunted him. "But I stand here, at eighty-three years old, grateful. Because despite what has been taken from me...something remains."
His free hand gestured toward Dario, then to me.
"Someone remains."
Heat crawled up my neck, as the spotlight shifted subtly, tightening on us.
"Legacy," he said, the word slicing through the hush, "means little without an heir to protect it. To honor it. To continue what generations before had built with blood, sweat and sacrifice."
My heart thudded. Slow and heavy.
"And so, tonight," Grandpa's voice rose, strong and resolute, "I present to you, the future of the Ricci family."
He turned fully toward me, pride softening the harsh lines of his face.
"My granddaughter, Isolda Ricci."
Applause erupted. Shocked and scattered at first, then swelling into something thunderous.
I swallowed hard.
Grandpa lifted his cane slightly, signaling for silence. "She is my chosen heir."
Cameras angled upward, their flashes blinding but I kept my gaze straight ahead. My smile, practiced. While Dario straightened beside me, his hand warm and unyielding at my spine.
But Grandpa wasn't done.
"And to secure the Ricci legacy," he added, his voice booming with absolute finality, "she will be joined in marriage to Dario Bianchi."
My breath caught.
A low wave of whispers rolling through the ballroom. Surprise, speculation, some even envy.
Dario didn't move. He didn't even breathe. His fingers simply pressed firmer into my back like he was anchoring me.
Claiming me.
"Together," Grandpa declared, "they will carry forward the Ricci name."
The room erupted again, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat. Loud and uneven. As if the world was tilting beneath my feet.