Ophelia's POV,
The chatter in the room had barely begun to settle when I released her and turned toward my former sister-in-law, eyes cold and steady. I could see the panic flickering in Liora's expression, the fake tears poised on her cheeks, Collins' awkward attempt to save face, and Isla's brewing fury.
I raised my hand lightly toward Liora and spoke clearly, the entire room hearing. "Bow and apologize publicly, or I will make this video viral."
Liora's face was drained of color. Without a word, she sank to her knees, opening her mouth to beg forgiveness. The whispers around the room thickened like smoke.
Then… SHATTER. The loud crash of glass echoed from somewhere across the hall.
Every head turned, and Isla appeared, a storm in heels, her eyes blazing. She marched straight to me, gripping my arm like she intended to tear me apart.
"You just came to gain attention!" she yelled. "You must've forced yourself on Dante! There's no other way he could've accepted you!"
Her hand gestured wildly, and suddenly an old photo of me flashed on the projector wall.
My heart nearly exploded.
It was me, years ago, awkward, heavy, unrecognizable. The picture was taken when I was asleep, barely dressed up properly. Looking like an absolute mess.
The room's whispers turned cruel.
"She vanished for two years and came back looking like that? Please. That's not a glow-up, that's a receipt."
"The old photo explains everything. Dante wouldn't have looked at her twice back then."
"She upgraded her face and upgraded her life. Don't romanticize it."
"If she lied about her past, what else did she lie about?"
"She should be grateful that anyone even married her."
"She's proof that men don't love women, they love upgrades."
I couldn't breathe. I was hearing many things at once. My hand shot up instinctively to strike her or grab her phone, but Dante's strong fingers wrapped around my wrist. Gentle, yet commanding.
He bent slightly and pressed a soft kiss to my hand, whispering in my hair, "I'm sorry."
I barely had time to think before he was there. Before anyone could process it, he pressed his lips to mine. Hard. Demanding. Everything about him…the weight of his body, the heat radiating from his chest, the steady, unyielding strength of him…pulled me into the kiss like a tide I couldn't resist. I clung to him, my hands pressed against his chest, and for a moment the world vanished. Only him. Only the way his mouth moved against mine, claiming, protective, possessive.
I could feel the crowd around us, their murmurs and wide-eyed stares, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except him. He lifted me slightly, pressed me closer, and it was as if we were suspended in that stolen moment, lost to the chaos of the room. His hand brushed my hair, fingers threading through it with an intimacy that made my knees weak.
And then Dante broke the kiss with a casual authority that only made me cling to him tighter, craving the warmth and safety that had been ripped away. He didn't release me, not fully. He pulled me against him and wrapped his arms around me like the world outside couldn't touch me.
My gaze flicked to Isla, and I could feel her hesitation, the smugness she thought would shame me. But he saw her differently. His dark eyes snapped to her, sharp as a blade, and the air in the room changed. I could feel Isla's pulse spike, and hear her breath hitch. He spoke slowly, deliberately, his voice low and dangerous.
"Speak of her carefully," he said, his hand tightening slightly at my waist. "My wife… survived a world that would've broken all of you."
He gestured with one deliberate, flawless motion toward the projector, the image of that old, unflattering photo frozen on the screen. He tilted his head, eyes glinting as they swept over the room like a predator assessing a threat.
"That photograph," he continued, his voice calm but lethal, "might've survived. But if I found it anywhere else… she wouldn't."
A ripple of unease ran through the crowd. Whispers faltered. Gasps quieted. And Isla? She paled. Every bit of her smug confidence drained, replaced with a sharp, instinctive fear that made her shift backward, small, almost shrinking under his gaze.
I felt my chest swell. Not from pride exactly, but from the searing, dark satisfaction of being seen, protected, claimed. His hands tightened around me just enough to remind me I belonged to him. Fake or not. He leaned his forehead to mine briefly, and I felt it. An unspoken promise buried in the heat between us: that no one would ever touch me without consequence. Not now. Not ever.
And though my heart still hammered from the embarrassment of the crowd, from the intensity of his possessive gaze, and the dangerous warning in his tone, a shiver of something far more intoxicating ran through me. Dark, thrilling.
He had made it clear: anyone who dared cross me would feel him.
And I, trembling but alive, realized I had never wanted that protection more.
Isla's face twisted in rage. She lunged toward me, screaming, but before she could reach me, a sharp slap rang out.
Every head whipped toward the source.
The beautiful, elegant lady stepped forward, brushing her dress delicately, exhaling as though it were nothing.
"Have you no manners, Isla? Why do you want to ruin your birthday?"
Rhea!