The night began with silk.
Aria stood before a mirror taller than she was, its gilded frame curving like vines around glass polished so well she could see every flicker of her breath. A maid—silent, efficient, faceless in her servitude—fastened the last clasp of the gown Lorenzo had ordered for her. The fabric pooled around her like molten midnight, the deep blue so rich it drank the light and shimmered with every movement. The bodice hugged her frame, boned and sharp, the neckline modest enough to be respectable yet daring enough to draw eyes. Diamonds—small, cold things—dangled at her ears, and a mask of silver lace was placed delicately over her face. She didn't recognize herself in the reflection. She looked like someone else. Someone powerful. Someone dangerous. Someone who belonged.
But she didn't. Not really. Beneath the silk and jewels, she was still the girl who had been dragged from her home, who had been forced into vows she hadn't spoken freely. The mask might hide her face, but it couldn't disguise the cage wrapped around her heart.
When the maid withdrew, Lorenzo entered. He didn't knock—he never did. The door swung open, and there he was, framed in the doorway in a suit so sharp it looked like it had been cut from shadow itself. His mask was black, smooth and simple, covering half his face but not his mouth. That mouth curved faintly when his gaze landed on her.
"Perfect," he said. One word, low and deliberate, and it felt like both a judgment and a brand. His eyes lingered on her, unflinching, as though daring her to deny the effect he had orchestrated.
Aria forced her spine straight. "I feel like a mannequin."
"Good," he replied, stepping closer. "That's what tonight is. A display. You are mine, and they need to see it." He reached out, adjusting the strap of her mask with an intimacy that made her skin prickle. "Do not flinch. Do not stumble. You'll walk at my side, you'll smile when necessary, and you'll speak only when spoken to."
Her lips parted, a sharp retort rising, but his gaze caught hers through the mask. Dark, unyielding, warning. The words withered on her tongue. She hated herself for swallowing them, but she knew tonight was not the time for rebellion. Tonight, she needed to observe, to listen. To learn.
The ride to the gala was in silence, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the city lights flashing like distant fire through the tinted glass. Guards trailed them in another car, shadows loyal to Lorenzo's command. Aria stared out the window, her heart hammering, her reflection in the glass reminding her of what she was about to face. Not just another dinner. Not another private humiliation. This was public. This was spectacle.
The venue was a mansion even grander than the one Lorenzo kept her in, its gates thrown open, its gardens ablaze with lanterns, strings of lights curling up marble pillars. Music drifted into the night, the low thrum of violins and cellos entwining with the hum of laughter, of conversation, of power gathering in one place. Masks glittered everywhere, jewels catching candlelight, silks and satins swishing against polished floors. The air was thick with perfume, cigars, champagne, and the metallic undertone of secrets.
When they entered, all eyes turned.
Whispers rose like wind rustling through leaves. "The bride." "The De Luca wife." "So sudden." "So strange."
Aria felt them, each whisper like a needle pricking her skin, but she kept her chin high, her steps in time with Lorenzo's stride. His hand rested at the small of her back, firm and possessive, a silent command: stand tall, or fall. She could feel his pride in the way he walked, his satisfaction at the spectacle he had created. She was his ornament tonight, his prize, his claim staked before the wolves.
Introductions blurred together. Men in masks with sharp smiles, women with laughter that carried knives. Some congratulated Lorenzo warmly, others with veiled disdain, but all of them looked at Aria with curiosity, suspicion, and hunger. She answered politely, mechanically, her words rehearsed in her head: "Thank you." "It's an honor." "Yes, unexpected."
But the longer she stood beneath their scrutiny, the more she understood: this wasn't just about her. This was about him. About them seeing that Lorenzo De Luca had taken a wife, and that no one had dared stop him.
The music shifted, a waltz beginning, and Lorenzo turned to her. He didn't ask. He didn't need to. His hand extended, black-gloved, and she placed hers in it because refusing would have been louder than any acceptance.
On the dance floor, surrounded by others yet somehow alone, they moved. His hand at her waist was firm, guiding her steps, his other hand enclosing hers, their palms pressed together as if in a silent struggle. She had never danced formally, not like this, but he led with precision, his movements smooth, confident. She followed, because she had no choice, but she lifted her chin, refusing to let him see her falter.
"You surprise me," he murmured, his lips close to her ear though his eyes never left hers. "You don't stumble."
"Maybe I don't want to give you the satisfaction," she whispered back, her voice steady even as her pulse raced.
The corner of his mouth twitched, the ghost of a smirk. "Defiance wrapped in grace. They'll love you."
"Or hate me," she countered.
"Same thing," he said, spinning her effortlessly before drawing her back against him. "It means they're watching."
The music swelled, and for a moment, the world blurred around them. It was infuriating—the way her body responded to his, the heat that radiated from his touch, the rhythm that seemed to pulse not just through the violins but through her blood. She hated that he could make her feel anything beyond rage. She hated the thrill that shivered through her when his grip tightened, when his gaze locked hers like a challenge she couldn't refuse.
But the dance ended, and reality returned with a rush of applause, scattered and insincere. Lorenzo released her hand slowly, deliberately, as though reminding her that even when he let go, the chain remained.
She was about to step away, to retreat into the crowd and breathe, when a figure moved toward her. A man, tall, dressed in a mask of silver and black, his presence calm but insistent. He bowed slightly, his voice low, a murmur meant for her alone.
"Congratulations, Signora," he said, his tone smooth. But then, as he straightened, his voice shifted, softer, urgent. "Be careful. He'll destroy you."
Aria froze. The words cut through the noise, through the music, through everything. She turned to demand what he meant, to ask who he was, but he had already slipped back into the crowd, swallowed by silks and shadows.
Her pulse thundered. The air around her seemed to grow colder, the weight of Lorenzo's gaze pressing against her back even though he hadn't spoken. She forced herself to stand still, to mask the tremor that wanted to shake her bones.
The stranger's words echoed, looping endlessly.
He'll destroy you.
And for the first time that night, surrounded by laughter and light, Aria felt colder than the glass cage waiting for her at home.