The long black dress was a silk tomb. It glided over my skin with a costly whisper, the low back neckline plunging like a valley between my shoulder blades, the tight sleeves encircling my arms like satin shackles. In front of the mirror, I raised my chin. The red lipstick was the only genuine thing on that face—a stain of defiance on a portrait of obedience.
I had gotten ready myself, in a heavy silence. No maid, no helper. I needed that intimate ritual to remind myself who I was—Isabella Moretti, disguised as Isabella Vance. Each brushstroke of mascara, each strand of hair tucked into the low bun was an act of free will, perhaps the last of the day.
I didn't know about Uncle Marco. In my bubble of preparation, the greatest danger was tripping in my high heels or saying something wrong to the mayor. Ignorant, foolish.
When I left the room, he was already in the living room.
Alexander, in his tuxedo, was the very definition of power sculpted into elegant lines. Standing before the windows, he seemed to rule the glittering city at his feet. Hearing my footsteps, he turned.
And for a second—just one—his mask cracked.
I didn't see the calculating CEO. I didn't see the ruthless negotiator. I saw a man. And in his gray eyes, something flickered: pure and simple appreciation. It was as quick as it was genuine, as if he had forgotten for an instant that I was an acquisition, and saw me only as a woman.
My heart gave a disobedient leap.
But then, as if a switch had been flipped, the coldness returned. He approached, and the air around me was heavy with his scent—burnt wood and ambition.
"You look stunning," he said, his voice smooth as velvet on steel.
A trembling smile threatened my lips. "Thank you" died in my throat as he leaned in, his lips a hair's breadth from my ear.
"It's a shame that beauty often hides the cracks, isn't it, Isabella?"
The compliment had turned into a stab. I froze.
"Your Uncle Marco called on the intercom today," he whispered, each word a shard of ice embedded in the back of my neck. "He seems eager to speak with the new Mrs. Vance."
Sudden, absolute terror exploded in my chest. Marco. How? Why? And how did he know so quickly?
"How did you…" I choked.
"Everything you touch touches me now," he cut in, his hand resting on the exposed curve of my back. The touch was warm, firm, a possession. But his words were ice. "Your ghosts are my ghosts. Your debts, my debts. And I don't like being surprised."
The world spun. The black dress, which had seemed glamorous, now felt like a shroud. He knew. And worse: he was dragging my chaotic past into our clean transaction.
"What did he want?" I forced the words out.
"I didn't answer. But he'll call again." Alexander studied my face, his eyes scanning every inch of my terror. "You owe me an explanation. Later. Now…" His hand on my waist tightened, turning me toward the elevator door. "…our audience awaits us."
I walked like an automaton. The fear for Marco—a problem I thought I'd left behind—mingled with the treacherous desire that Alexander's mere touch still instilled in me. It was a sick, perverse confusion.
In the elevator, he didn't let go of my waist. His reflection in the polished steel was one of perfect calm. Mine, of contained panic.
"Smile, darling," he murmured, without looking at me. "The show starts now."
The doors opened to the atrium. And I entered the gala dinner no longer as a confident actress, but as a hostage who had just discovered that her captor also held the keys to all her skeletons.
The game, I realized with a chill in my soul, wasn't just about the future we had sold. It was about who controlled the ghosts of the past.
And Alexander Vance had just made it clear who owned them.
The hotel ballroom was a temple of gold, crystal, and understated ostentation. The "Vance Foundation" gleamed in silver letters on a large panel, and New York's elite circulated with champagne glasses and expensive smiles. As soon as we entered, we were swallowed by the whirlwind.
Alexander was a master. His hand never left my waist or my back, a constant touch that was both support and a chain. He introduced me as "my wife, Isabella" with a pride that seemed genuine, recounted the fictional story of our meeting at the art gallery with a charm that captivated everyone, and always, always, brought me to the center of the narrative with a look that said, "Look what I've achieved."
I smiled, nodded, shook hands. I answered light questions about honeymoon plans ("a private retreat, we're still choosing the location") and personal tastes ("I love modern art, like Alexander"). It was exhausting. Every smile of mine was a lie, every laugh a betrayal of who I really was.
During dinner, seated at the main table, his touch became bolder. Under the linen tablecloth, his hand His fingers rested on my knee, then slowly moved up my thigh, tracing hypnotic patterns through the thin fabric of my dress. I froze, trying to follow the conversation with the mayor to my right while my whole body focused on that intimate and forbidden point of contact. He spoke to an investor to his left, without missing a beat, as if he weren't slowly driving me to madness.
In a moment of relative calm, while the main courses were being cleared away, he leaned toward me.
"You're doing magnificently," he murmured, his warm breath on my neck. "They adore you. They're all wondering what spell you've cast on me."
"Perhaps it's the same spell you cast on me," I replied, the boldness born from the champagne and exasperation.
He stepped back enough to look at me. In his eyes, a spark of genuine surprise, followed by something more dangerous: amusement. "Careful, Isabella. Starting to believe your own charade is the first step toward ruin."
"Or for the truth," I retorted, holding his gaze.
The world around us seemed to vanish. The orchestra, the voices, the clinking of silverware… everything became background noise against the heavy silence that settled between us. His gaze fell to my lips. My heart raced.
It was at that moment that I saw him.
On the other side of the hall, near a marble column, stood Daniel. My ex. My past mistake, personified. He was thinner, wearing a suit that didn't suit him well, and looking directly at me. Our eyes met, and a bitter, knowing smile appeared on his face. He slightly raised his glass toward me, in a gesture of greeting that was a stab in the heart.
All the blood seemed to drain from my face. My fingers clenched around the champagne glass. How was he there? What kind of charity event attracted a bankrupt gambler?
"Isabella?" Alexander's voice, suddenly alert, brought me back. His hand squeezed mine under the table. "What's wrong?"
Following my gaze, his eyes met Daniel's. An immediate change came over him. His relaxed posture vanished, replaced by the rigidity of a predator who sensed a threat. His fingers, which had previously caressed my leg, closed in a firm grip.
"Who is he?" The question was a low growl, just for my ears.
"Nobody," I lied automatically, panic taking over. "An old acquaintance. Nothing important."
"'Nothing important' doesn't make you pale as a ghost," he retorted, his gaze still fixed on Daniel, who now turned his back and disappeared into the crowd. "Jonathan didn't mention anyone like that."
Of course not. I lied to Jonathan. I omitted Daniel completely.
"Alexander, please," I whispered, pleading. "It's nothing. Just a scare."
He studied my face for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. The music changed, slowing down. He stood, extending his hand to me.
"Let's dance," he ordered, not requested.
It wasn't an invitation. It was a demand. In the middle of that crowded hall, it was a way to get away from prying eyes, to have me all to himself. I placed my hand in his, and he pulled me to the center of the dance floor.
His arms enveloped me, pulling me so close I could feel every line of his body through his clothes. My hands found his shoulders, the fine texture of his tuxedo beneath my fingers.
"Now," he said, his mouth close to my ear as we moved slowly, out of sync with the music, "you're going to tell me who that man was. And why your 'nobody' has the power to undo the brilliant performance you've been giving all night."
The dance was intimate, sensual. To anyone watching, we were the perfect couple, passionate, lost in each other. Only I could feel the steely tension in his arms, the coldness in his voice. "—He's my ex," I admitted, the words coming out like a confession ripped out. "It ended over a year ago. It's… irrelevant."
"—Irrelevant things don't show up at fifty-thousand-dollar dinners," he cut in. "Does he contact you?"
"—No! I haven't seen him since… since it all ended."
"—And how did it end?"
The question was direct, brutal. The music continued, a romantic waltz, a grotesque contrast to our conversation.
"—He had problems… with gambling. Debts. Lies. I ended it."
Alexander was silent for a full lap around the dance floor. His face was close to mine, his gaze fixed on something over my shoulder.
"—And those debts?" he finally asked. "Did they go with him?"
The net was closing in. He was connecting the dots. Daniel, the debts, my despair, the contract.
"—Alexander," I said, my voice trembling. "This has nothing to do with our agreement."
He stopped dancing right there in the middle of the dance floor, causing some couples around us to move aside. He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. His eyes were two wells of furious ice.
"You "Whatever you have to do with our agreement," he hissed. "You're mine. Your debts, your ex-boyfriends, your troublesome uncles. Everything. You thought you were just selling your time? You sold your whole package of problems, Isabella. And now it's my problems to solve."
Before I could answer, he pulled me back, resuming the dance with a contained fury. "You're going home with Gregor now. I'll handle it."
"Handle what? What are you going to do?"
"Ensure that 'nobody' remains exactly that. Nobody."
He led me to the edge of the dance floor and discreetly gestured to Gregor, who appeared like a shadow. "Take Mrs. Vance home."
"Alexander, no!" I grabbed his arm, genuine panic now. I didn't know what he was capable of, but the look in his eyes promised nothing good.
He covered my hand with his, a gesture that to others would seem affectionate. "You'd better hope he really is irrelevant, Isabella. Because if he isn't… you've just put me in a very unpleasant position. And I don't like being put in unpleasant positions."
I let go of his arm and Gregor led me firmly out of the hall, away from the lights, the music, the stares. As I passed through the door, I looked back one last time. Alexander already had the phone to his ear, his eyes scanning the crowd, the CEO transformed into a hunter. And Daniel had vanished.
In the silent car back to the penthouse, huddled in the back seat, the black dress felt like a shroud. The night should have been about appearances. But it had ended with a dangerous truth exposed: Alexander wasn't just my owner on paper. He was willing to own me in reality, at any cost. And the first thing he would do as such would be to eliminate any ghost from my past that dared to haunt his new property.
The penthouse was dark and silent when I entered. I tried to wait for him, sitting on the sofa in the glass living room, but sleep and shock overcame me. I woke in the middle of the night, in my bed, to the sound of my bedroom door closing softly. He was home. My legs carried me to my bedroom door. The hallway was dark, but a sliver of light filtered from under his door. And then I heard it. The muffled sound of a voice, his voice, harsh and relentless, on the phone: "…yes, he disappeared from the party. Find him. And find out everything he knows about her. Everything." The silence that followed was more terrifying than the words. He was hunting Daniel. And in doing so, he was digging deeper into the secrets I so feared. Back in my bed, I stared at the ceiling. I had unleashed a force I couldn't control. And the question that now haunted me wasn't whether Alexander would find my demons, but what he would do with them when he did.