The Rossi Foundation Gala was a cathedral of curated excess. The Grand Ballroom of the Hotel Principe di Savoia was a symphony of crystal, silk, and whispered fortunes. Chloe stood at Luca's side, a mannequin of composure, the weight of the aquamarine bracelet a cool, grounding presence on her wrist. It was the only real thing she wore.
Her gown was her own design—midnight blue liquid silk, backless, held by a whisper-thin diamond chain. It was a declaration. See me. See what I can do. She had braced for Luca's critique, his strategic adjustments.
He had said nothing. His eyes had darkened, a storm gathering in their blue depths. He'd simply offered his arm, his jaw a hard line of marble. Now, as they navigated the shimmering crowd, his hand was a brand on the small of her bare back, a possessive anchor in the sea of eyes.
"Luca! A triumph, as always." An older man with a senator's polished smile materialized, clapping Luca's shoulder. His gaze slithered to Chloe. "And this must be the muse behind the new… softer press. Charmed."
Luca's arm slid around her waist, pulling her a half-step behind him in a motion that looked protective but felt like reclamation. "Senator Valenti. Chloe is my fiancée, not a muse. And she is delicate. Let's not overwhelm her." The words were pleasant, but the steel beneath them made the senator's smile tighten.
As they moved away, Chloe murmured, "I'm not delicate."
"He's a predator who collects trophies," Luca said, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. "Stick to the script. Smile at the board. Look at me as if I hang the moon. That's all."
"As if you hang the moon," she repeated, the romantic cliché ash in her mouth.
He stopped, turning her to face him in the middle of the swirling crowd. To the cameras, it was an intimate moment. His eyes searched hers, and for a heartbeat, she saw not the strategist, but the man from last night—the one who'd traced her scar. "It's a jungle, mia cara. I am merely trying to keep you from being devoured."
Before she could untangle the unexpected endearment, a voice like spiced honey cut through the hum.
"Caro! There you are!"
Isabella Moretti was a vision in vengeance-red, a slash of color in the monochrome wealth. Her gown plunged, her smile sharpened. She air-kissed Luca's cheek, leaving a crimson imprint he wiped away with a flick of his thumb.
"And the little artisan!" Isabella's gaze was a physical sweep, pausing on the aquamarine at Chloe's wrist. "How… interesting. Trying to rebuild the family empire one bauble at a time?"
Chloe felt Luca tense, a coiled spring beside her. Do not engage, he'd warned. But the condescension was a spark to tinder. "Some value history and heart in their pieces, Isabella. Unlike things that are merely… loud."
Isabella's eyes flashed. She linked her arm through Luca's, dismissing Chloe. "Luca, you must save me a dance. For old times' sake. Remember Lake Como? The summer before you developed this… quaint taste for renovation projects?"
The metaphor was deliberate. Chloe was the fixer-upper.
Luca extracted his arm with glacial grace. "My dance card is full, Isabella. It belongs to my fiancée."
"Of course." Isabella's smile was all pity. "Enjoy the fantasy, cara. He adores his games. But every game ends. And the players…" She let the sentence hang, a poisonous cloud, before disappearing into the crowd.
A cold knot settled in Chloe's stomach. Luca's hand found hers, lacing their fingers. His palm was warm, his grip firm. "She's nothing."
"What was she to you?"
His thumb stroked the back of her hand, an absent, soothing motion that felt more intimate than any kiss. "A lesson. One I don't care to repeat." He looked at her, intensity burning through the social veneer. "You are nothing like her. Remember that."
The orchestra began a waltz. Without a word, he led her to the floor. He pulled her close, one hand searing her bare back, the other clasping hers. They moved as one entity, his lead confident, unshakeable. He was a magnificent dancer.
"You're good at this," she breathed, her cheek near his shoulder.
"At dancing? Or the performance?"
"Both."
He spun her out, then reeled her back in, closer than before. Her body met the solid wall of his chest. She could feel the strong, steady drum of his heartbeat against her own frantic rhythm.
"The bracelet," he murmured, his voice a low vibration near her ear. "It's causing a stir. People are asking."
A flicker of panic. "Is that a problem?"
"It's a revelation." He leaned back just enough to lock eyes with her. Here, surrounded by hundreds, the masks dissolved. It was just them. "It's you. Uncompromising. Strong. Beautifully, defiantly real. It's the only honest thing in this entire room."
Her breath caught. This wasn't in the script. This was Luca seeing her—Chloe the artist, not the Laurent heir, not the contractual prop. In his gaze, she saw not calculation, but awe.
The music crescendoed. He dipped her, deep and dramatic, his face inches from hers. The world tilted, a blur of light and color. Cameras flashed, capturing the perfect fairy-tale moment. But Chloe was lost in the storm of his eyes, the secure heat of his hand, the shocking realization that in this fake embrace, she had never felt more achingly real.
As he brought her up, his lips brushed her temple. The barest whisper of contact, there and gone. A shiver, profound and electrical, raced down her spine.
"Chloe," he breathed against her skin, her name a confession and a surrender.
The song ended. The spell shattered into polite applause. Luca straightened, the public mask seamlessly reassembling. But his hand lingered on her waist, a beat too long.
They were leaving the dais after the speeches when it happened. A server, navigating the press of bodies, stumbled. A tray laden with champagne flutes tilted. A golden waterfall of liquid and shattering crystal arced through the air, aimed directly at Chloe.
Time dilated. She saw the disaster—the ruin of her dress, the sparkling humiliation, the headline.
Luca moved faster than thought. A blur of black tuxedo, he pivoted, wrapping his body around hers, turning his back to the deluge. Champagne soaked his jacket, plastered his dark hair. Shards of glass glittered on his shoulders like morbid confetti.
A collective gasp echoed. The server babbled apologies.
Luca ignored him. His hands cupped Chloe's face, his eyes scanning her with frantic intensity. "Are you hurt? Tell me. Did any glass hit you?"
She could only shake her head, stunned. He had shielded her. Instinctively. Completely.
Seeing she was unharmed, the violent tension in his shoulders eased. He brushed a stray droplet from her cheek with his thumb. His touch trembled. The look in his eyes was pure, undiluted terror—not for the scene, not for the ruined Brioni suit, but for her.
Then, as the crowd murmured and phones rose like a digital forest, he did it. He leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead. The kiss was firm, possessive, reverberating with a tenderness that shook her to her core.
"Let's go home," he said, his voice gravel.
He kept his arm around her, a bastion against the stares, leading her through the parted crowd. But in the hushed, empty lobby, away from the spectacle, his pace slowed. He stopped, still holding her, and rested his forehead against hers. His breath came in uneven gusts.
"Luca?" she whispered.
He didn't speak. When he finally pulled back, his expression was a battlefield. The ice was gone, melted by a torrent of raw, unvarnished vulnerability that was more frightening than any of his cold rage.
"This," he said hoarsely, the word clawing its way out, "was not part of the plan."
And Chloe knew, with a certainty that thrilled and terrified her, he wasn't talking about the champagne.
He was talking about them.
The contract was in ashes. And they were both free-falling through the flames.