HIS POV
The hall went quiet the second she walked in. Her hand in her father's,but her eyes—oh God—sharp enough to cut glass , She moved like she owned everything—the shadows, the air, even the silence. She glanced at me then turned. My stomach dropped. And there it was. My name. Inked along her waist. Peeking from the curve of that red, backless dress. My name… on her. On her.
A shiver ran up my spine, electric, sudden. I've seen women tease, I've seen temptation… but this? This was deliberate. Confident. Dangerous. And I couldn't look away. Pulse hammering, part of me screaming, don't move. just watch. savor it. and i did.
She moved—effortless, predatory—and every step tugged at something inside me I hadn't felt in years. She wasn't walking. She was taking the room. And somehow, without a word, without trying… she'd already taken me too. and God i don't want to be retrieved.
HER POV
I saw him.
The man I've imagined in ways that would make a priest weep.The one whose name still leaves me breathless every single time I touch myself.
Lorenzo De Luca.
I didn't look away. Not when I should have. I let my eyes linger—just a second too long. And that's when it happened. I felt it. His attention locking onto me. Heavy. Sharp. Impossible to miss.
He saw it.
He saw his name, tattooed on the most intimate part of me.
I didn't flinch. Didn't try to hide it. I wanted him to see. Wanted him to understand.
I want this man.
And I'm not pretending otherwise anymore.
I'm going to have him.
And sooner or later, he's going to realize he wants me too.
HIS POV
She knows I saw it.
That little smirk at the corner of her lips tells me everything. She planned this. The dress. The timing. The way she turned just enough when she greeted someone—just enough for the ink to peek out.
My name.
On her.
I should walk away. Find a drink. Find anyone else.
Instead, I stay frozen.
She's laughing now—head tilted back, throat bare. Like she's daring me to look lower.
God help me, I am.
Her father steers her toward the bar. Toward me. And she lets him, all innocence and hidden teeth.
HER POV
"Lorenzo." Papa's voice is warm, clueless. "Didn't expect you here."
I feel him before I see him. That heat. That weight.
"Business never sleeps, Mr. Moretti." His voice is low smoke. Three years since I heard it in person. My memory did it injustice.
I turn slowly. Let him see all of me. Let him see it.
"Vivienne." He says my name like it scrapes on the way out.
"Lorenzo." I give him nothing but his own name back.
His eyes drop. Just a second. To my waist. To the ink he knows is there now.
When he looks up, something behind his eyes has shifted.
Something hungry.
HIS POV
"Vivienne's just back from Russia," her father says, filling the silence I forgot to fill. "Final year. Top of her class, you know."
I don't care about Russia. Or her grades. I care about the way she's standing close enough that I catch her scent—cold air and jasmine and something reckless.
"Congratulations," I manage.
She tilts her head. "Thank you."
Two words. Two ordinary words.
Her hand brushes mine when she reaches for a glass. Accidentally. I don't believe in accidents anymore.
"Dad," she says, not breaking eye contact with me, "why don't you go say hello to Uncle Marco? I'll catch up."
Her father hesitates. Sees nothing. I've spent decades perfecting this mask.
But she sees through it.
She always did.
HER POV
He's trying so hard not to look at my waist.
It's adorable.
"I missed you," I say, once we're alone enough. The party swirls, but we're on our own island.
His jaw tightens. "You shouldn't have done that."
"Done what?"
"Don't."
"Don't what, Lorenzo?" I step closer. Close enough to feel his heat. "Don't want you? Don't remember exactly what you felt like? Don't—"
His hand catches my wrist. Gentle. But firm.
"You have no idea what you're asking for."
I smile. Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous.
"Then show me."
The air turns electric. A storm waiting to break.
He releases my wrist. Steps back.
But his eyes—
Oh, his eyes tell a different story.
"They're watching," he says quietly.
"Let them."
"Vivienne."
"Lorenzo."
Something cracks behind his control. Just a hair. Just enough.
Got you.
HIS POV
She's going to ruin me.
And I'm going to thank her for it.
"I'll be in touch," I hear myself say. Like this is a deal. Like I'm not bleeding want all over the floor.
She raises an eyebrow. "Will you?"
"I always keep my promises, Miss Moretti."
She leans in. Her lips brush my ear. Her breath is warm. Her words are hell.
"So do I, Mr. De Luca. And I promised myself I'd have you before I graduate."
She pulls back. Smiles like an angel with a devil's agenda.
Then she walks away.
And I watch.
Because I can't not watch.
And because—God help me—I already know.
She's going to win.
She walked away.
Just like that. Like she hadn't just lit a match and dropped it at my feet.
I stood there, whiskey glass empty, knuckles white. The party kept spinning around me—laughter, clinking glasses, the low thrum of strings from the quartet. None of it reached me.
All I could hear was her voice. I promised myself I'd have you before I graduate.
Christ.
I needed air. I needed distance. I needed another drink and maybe a cold shower and definitely to not watch the way her hips moved as she disappeared into the crowd.
But I watched.
Of course I watched.
She stopped by a group of her father's business associates. Shook hands. Smiled that perfect smile. Every inch the daughter of a powerful man. No one looking at her would guess that beneath that red dress, hidden just above the curve of her hip, was my name.
My name.
I set the glass down. Hard.
"Lorenzo." Her father appeared at my elbow, oblivious, warm. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Something like that."
"Vivienne's grown into quite the woman, hasn't she?" He said it proudly. Paternally. He had no idea he was handing me a loaded gun.
"She has," I managed.
"Studying in Russia, you know. Final year. Comes home every holiday looking more like her mother." He chuckled. "I keep telling her to find a nice young man. She just laughs."
She already found one. She just didn't tell you it's me.
"I should go," I said. "Early meeting."
"Of course, of course." He shook my hand, firm and friendly. "I'll tell Vivienne you said goodbye."
Don't.
"Please."
---
I didn't go straight to the door.
I told myself I was taking the long way around. Avoiding the crowd. But my feet carried me past the terrace doors, past the dessert table, past the string quartet—and there she was.
Standing by the garden fountain. Alone. Her back to me.
The red dress caught the moonlight. The tattoo was hidden now, but I knew it was there. Just beneath the silk. Just above skin I'd never touched but had imagined touching a thousand times over three years.
She turned. Like she knew I'd come.
"Leaving so soon, Mr. De Luca?"
My jaw tightened. "Miss Moretti."
"You don't have to run." She stepped closer. One step. Two. Close enough that I could smell jasmine again. "I don't bite."
"Liar."
Her smile widened. "Maybe. But you like that about me."
I should have walked away. Should have said something cold and final and ended this before it began.
Instead, I reached out. Just barely. My fingers brushed her wrist. Her pulse jumped under my touch.
"This doesn't leave the garden," I said quietly.
"Who says I want it to?"
I dropped my hand. Stepped back.
"Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Don't be late."
"I'm never late for things I want."
I held her gaze for one long, dangerous breath.
Then I turned and walked out of the party.
I didn't look back.
But I felt her watching me the whole way.
---
Outside the venue
The night air hit me like a slap. Cold. Sharp. Necessary.
My driver opened the door. I got in. Didn't speak until we were three blocks away.
"Home," I said.
Then I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes.
My name. On her.
The car hummed through the city. Streetlights flashed across my face like a countdown. When I got home, I wouldn't sleep. I'd pace. I'd pour a drink. And eventually, I'd call the only person who could make sense of any of this.
But for now, in the dark of the backseat, I let myself admit one thing:
I wanted her three years ago. I told myself walking away was noble.
Tonight proved I was just a coward.