That evening, when Luca returned home, he pulled Melissa into a deep hug, burying his face in her hair. "Marco told me you met Sasha today," he murmured, his voice tense.
"She found me, and she was… very keen to assure me she's not a threat."
Luca pulled back, his hands framing her face. "She isn't. You believe me, don't you?"
In his eyes, she saw only earnest love, but superimposed over it was Sasha's perfectly crafted smile, and her mother's warning, the splinter in her heart twisted.
"I believe..... you love me," she whispered, her throat tight.
He kissed her forehead, a gesture of solace, but as he went to shower, Melissa stood alone in the living room, the city lights twinkling like distant, cold stars.
The drama was no longer a tabloid headline, It had walked into her life, sat at her table, and shaken her hand.
And the first, hairline cracks of doubt had begun to form in the foundation of her trust.
The heat of their passion still warmed her skin, but a new, chilling draft had found its way in.
**AT GALA
The Moretti Foundation's Annual Charity Gala was the event of the season, a whirl of crystal, couture, and calculated philanthropy.
For Melissa, standing before the floor-length mirror in a gown of midnight blue silk—a gift from Luca that made her feel like a fallen star—it felt like stepping into a lion's den.
Luca, devastatingly handsome in his tailored tuxedo, fastened a diamond teardrop necklace around her throat, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below her ear.
"You take my breath away, *mia regina*," he whispered, his hands settling on her bare shoulders. "Tonight, you are my queen.....Let the world see."
But as their sleek town car glided through the Roman streets, his phone buzzed incessantly.
Each time, his jaw tightened slightly before he silenced it. "Grandpa ," he finally grumbled, answering one call.
"(*Non ora *) We're almost there… Yes, I'll handle it." He ended the call, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
"Handle what?" Melissa asked, her fingers laced with his.
"Last-minute donor issues...Sasha's father was supposed to secure a major pledge from a Swiss consortium..... It's fallen through....Bruno is… applying pressure." His thumb stroked her knuckles.
"Who's Bruno?"She asked.
"Don't worry.....Tonight is about us."He said
The gala was a sensory overload, the Palazzo was transformed into a vision of opulence.
Yet, from the moment they entered, Melissa felt the weight of stares, whispers followed them like a rustling tide.
She saw the glances dart from her to Luca, then toward the entrance, as if expecting another arrival.
She was introduced to a dizzying array of people—counts, shipping magnates, a famous opera singer.
Through it all, Luca's hand remained a constant, possessive anchor at the small of her back.
He was the perfect partner, attentive, his pride in her palpable.
But his eyes kept scanning the room, a subtle tension in his posture.
The drama arrived, as if on cue, during the champagne reception. Sasha made her entrance.
Her gown was a slash of crimson, daring and dramatic, her walk a runway stride that commanded every lens in the room.
She moved through the crowd with practiced ease, a smile permanently fixed, until she reached Luca and Melissa.
"Luca! Melissa! You both look incredible," she gushed, air-kissing cheeks.
Her gaze lingered on Melissa's necklace. "Ah, the Moretti teardrops...they look even more stunning on you than in the vault." The comment was a velvet dagger, reminding everyone of Melissa's outsider status.
"Sasha," Luca nodded, his voice polite but cool. "The Swiss deal."
"A minor hiccup," she waved a dismissive hand, her eyes never leaving Melissa's.
"Papa is on the phone with them now....but it would help immensely if you could spare a moment to speak to their representative, Herr Bruno....He's here tonight and he admires you greatly." She touched Luca's arm, a casual, intimate gesture. "For old times' sake?... I mean For Vittorio?"
Luca's jaw worked, he looked at Melissa, apology already in his eyes. "*Amore*, I'll be back five minutes... Marco will stay with you." Luca said before Marco nodding.
"Of course," Melissa said, her smile feeling brittle.
"Business is business...I guess "Melissa murmured inwardly.
As Luca was led away by Sasha, who linked her arm through his with a proprietary air, Marco materialized at Melissa's side, a silent, mountainous shadow.
She tried to engage in small talk with a group of gallery owners, but her attention was fractured, pulled magnetically to where Luca stood across the room.
Sasha was laughing at something he said, her hand on his sleeve. Herr Bruno, a severe-looking man, nodded intently as Luca spoke.
It was more than five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Melissa excused herself and headed for the terrace, needing air.
The cool night breeze was a relief, She leaned against the balustrade, looking out over the illuminated gardens.
"He's a good man...your Luca but the Moretti world… it has its own gravity."
Melissa turned Vittorio Moretti stood in the doorway, resplendent in his formal wear, his sharp eyes missing nothing.
"Mr. Moretti."
"Call me Grandpa, please." He insisted and then joined her, his gaze also on the distant figures of Luca and Sasha.
"She is a complication...A beautiful, persistent complication from a past he thought was closed.... Her father's situation is… dire, And family, *signorina*, even troublesome family, has a claim."
"Are you warning me?" Melissa asked, her courage surprising her.
"I am stating a fact. Luca's heart, I believe, is yours. But his world, his name, his obligations… they are a tide. You must decide if you are strong enough to swim against it, or if you will be swept along." He patted her hand, a gesture that felt both grandfatherly and merciless.
"Enjoy the rest of your evening."
He left her as the orchestra struck up a waltz when Luca finally found her on the terrace, his expression was strained. "Melissa, I'm so sorry, It was more complicated than—"
"It's fine," she interrupted, the words tasting like ash, She wanted to scream, to demand he choose, right now, between her and the gravitational pull of his world.
But the gala, the eyes, Sasha's triumphant glance from across the room—it all felt like a trap.
Instead, she let him lead her to the dance floor, he held her close as they waltzed, his body a solid, familiar comfort against hers.
"I love you," he murmured into her hair, the words a desperate incantation. "Only you."
As they spun, she saw Sasha watching them, a slow, knowing smile playing on her lips.
The seed had been planted at the patisserie. Tonight, under the glittering chandeliers, it had been watered.
And in the silent, spinning center of the dance, Melissa felt the first cold, green shoot of fear break ground in her heart.
The passion that had once been their private language was now being spoken in a room full of strangers, and the translation was slipping out of her control.