The ballroom gleamed like a palace, chandeliers dripping with crystal light, marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. Voices carried in waves, laughter too sharp, too brittle to be real. Aria had thought she had grown accustomed to these gatherings—the endless parade of power dressed in velvet and diamonds, the suffocating air of wealth that stank of blood and secrecy. But tonight was different. Tonight, after Lorenzo's outburst at the last dinner, the eyes on her burned hotter, heavier. The whispers followed her like shadows, curling against her skin, every gaze a reminder that she was no longer just his wife in name but a figure in their myth—a woman who had sparked the fire of Lorenzo De Luca's wrath.
She wanted to disappear into the walls, to vanish beneath the glittering gowns and the clinking glasses. But she couldn't. She had been chosen, dressed, adorned like a queen, and placed at Lorenzo's side as though she were a jewel in his crown. Her gown tonight was crimson silk that clung to her curves, chosen by someone else's hand but fitting her like it had been crafted for this very moment. A slash of color against the sea of black and gold. A warning. A flame.
And beside her stood Lorenzo.
He was a storm in a tailored suit, the cut of black fabric framing shoulders broad enough to carry kingdoms. His presence radiated through the room, an invisible force that bent people's gazes, their words, their very movements around him. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. He didn't touch her, not yet, but the heat of his nearness coiled around her body like smoke, tethering her in ways chains never could.
The music swelled, a waltz unfurling through the hall, and couples began to drift toward the center of the room. Aria's stomach tightened, dread curling low. She knew what was coming. She had seen the expectation in the eyes of those around them, the hunger for spectacle. A new bride must dance with her husband, must prove her place in his world with every graceful step.
And then Lorenzo turned to her.
"Come," he said, his voice low, a command more than an invitation. His hand extended, palm open, fingers long and precise. His gaze was steady, dark, daring her to refuse.
Aria hesitated, her pulse quickening. Every instinct told her to resist, to defy, to tear her hand away and prove she would not be led. But the eyes around them pressed heavier than chains, and she knew that refusal would cost her dearly. Slowly, with a defiance that trembled beneath her skin, she placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers, strong, unyielding, and the contact sent a shiver racing up her arm. He led her forward, the crowd parting like water before him, until they stood at the center of the ballroom. The music swelled again, strings lilting, and he drew her into position.
His hand settled against the small of her back, firm, possessive. Her other hand he lifted, their fingers interlaced, his thumb brushing just once against her knuckle before stilling. His touch was not gentle, not tender, but it was devastating in its certainty.
And then they began to dance.
At first, Aria resisted. Her body stiff, her movements sharp, she tried to show him she would not yield, not even in this. But Lorenzo only tightened his hold, guiding her with a force that was neither rough nor kind, but absolute. He moved with precision, his steps perfect, his control total. She had no choice but to follow, and yet, somehow, he made her look as though she had chosen.
The room blurred around them—the glittering gowns, the hungry stares, the whispers that hissed like serpents. There was only the press of his body, the burn of his hand at her waist, the intensity of his gaze boring into hers. She tried to look away, to fix her eyes on anything else, but every time she faltered, his grip reminded her who led, who commanded, who owned.
"You fight me even when you dance," he murmured, his lips curving into the faintest smirk, visible only to her. "Do you know how many would kill to be in your place?"
Her jaw clenched, her eyes flashing as she snapped under her breath, "Then let them take it. Let them have you, your name, your chains. I never asked for this."
His smirk deepened, dangerous, a predator savoring prey that still had bite. "No," he said softly, his breath brushing her cheek as he leaned closer. "You didn't ask. But you're here. And whether you like it or not, you wear my name. My fire burns through you now."
Her chest tightened, her pulse a thunder in her ears. She hated him in that moment—hated his arrogance, his control, his ability to twist every moment into his dominion. And yet, beneath the hatred, something else coiled, something she could neither name nor banish. A spark that flared every time his hand pressed against her back, every time his eyes pinned her in place.
They spun, her gown flaring, his hold never faltering. She realized then that this was not a dance. It was a duel. Each step a challenge, each turn a clash of wills. He led, but she fought. He demanded, but she resisted. And somehow, in the tension between them, the dance became something alive, electric, undeniable.
By the second song, the whispers had begun. She heard them even as Lorenzo twirled her across the floor, their voices sharp as knives, carried on currents of envy and disbelief.
"Look at the way he holds her.""He never dances.""He actually cares for her…"
The words sliced into Aria, stealing her breath. She wanted to laugh, to scream, to tell them all they were wrong—that Lorenzo cared for nothing but power, that his rage, his fire, his touch were all tools of control. But when she met his gaze again, the words died on her tongue. Because for just a moment, his eyes betrayed something different—something raw, unguarded, gone as quickly as it appeared but real enough to shatter her denial.
Her chest tightened, her steps faltered, and his grip steadied her instantly. He leaned close, his lips grazing her ear as the dance drew to a close, his voice low and deadly intimate.
"Careful, wife," he whispered. "You're dancing with the devil. And devils don't let go."
The music ended. Applause rose around them. Lorenzo released her hand, but his eyes never left hers. And in the crowd, the whispers swelled louder, echoing through the golden hall until they became the only sound she could hear.
He actually cares for her.
And that, more than his fire, more than his fury, terrified her most of all.