The gala should've ended the moment Victor Romano brushed his lips against her hand.
But Seraphina stayed, smiling for cameras, sipping champagne, moving through the crowd like nothing had happened. Because that was what old money did. It smiled. It pretended. It swallowed poison with a silver spoon and never let the bitterness show.
Inside, though, her pulse hadn't steadied. The feel of Victor's grip still lingered on her waist, the burn of his lips on her skin like a stain she couldn't wash off.
She wanted Alessandro.
She hated herself for it, but she did.
Not for comfort. Not for safety. But because she knew, deep down, that he would've torn Victor's hand clean off for daring to touch her.
And the fact she wanted that—wanted his violence—made her stomach twist.
---
The Storm
By the time she returned home, the Valenti heir was waiting.
Alessandro leaned against his car, black suit immaculate, cigarette between his fingers. His jaw was tight, his stance coiled.
Her heels clicked against the driveway marble as she approached, spine straight, mask in place.
"You weren't invited," she said coolly.
His gaze dragged over her gown, her bare arms, her flushed cheeks. Smoke curled from his lips. "You let him touch you."
Her breath caught. "Excuse me?"
"Romano." He flicked the cigarette away, crushing it under his heel. His eyes burned. "You let him put his hands on you."
She forced a laugh. "It was a dance, Alessandro. At a gala. Try not to choke on your jealousy."
In a flash, he was in front of her, crowding her back against the marble pillar. His hands slammed on either side of her head, caging her in.
"Don't." His voice was low, lethal. "Don't play games with me."
---
The Confrontation
Her breath came faster. "You don't get to tell me who I can dance with."
"The fuck I don't." His hand shot out, gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Romano doesn't get to touch what's mine."
Her pulse spiked. Fury tangled with heat, choking her. "I'm not yours."
His thumb brushed along her jaw, rough, claiming. "Then why does your body react like it is?"
Her skin burned. She hated him. She hated that he was right.
She shoved at his chest, but he didn't move. He didn't even flinch.
Instead, he leaned closer, voice brushing her lips. "Tell me, Seraphina. Did he make your heart race like this? Or was that just me?"
Her knees trembled. She wanted to scream. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted both, and it terrified her.
---
The Almost-Kiss
"Let me go," she whispered, breath uneven.
"Say you didn't want it."
Her eyes blazed. "Want what?"
His mouth hovered inches from hers, heat pouring between them. "This."
Her lips parted, words lost. His breath was warm, intoxicating.
For one suspended heartbeat, she leaned in—just barely, just enough to taste the inevitability of it.
His lips brushed hers, feather-light. Not even a kiss. Just a promise.
And then—
"Seraphina!"
Her sister's voice cut through the night.
Isabella.
The spell shattered. Seraphina shoved him back, breath ragged, face flushed crimson.
Alessandro's eyes burned, wild and hungry, his restraint stretched razor thin.
"Run to your sister," he said softly, deadly. "But this isn't over."
---
Her Escape
She fled inside, ignoring Isabella's curious look.
Her hands shook as she closed her bedroom door, pressing her back against it. Her lips still tingled, phantom heat lingering.
She'd been seconds from kissing Alessandro Valenti.
Seconds from crossing a line she swore she'd never touch
.
And she wasn't sure if she regretted being interrupted… or if she hated that she hadn't gone further.