*The annual Ashcroft Foundation Charity Gala was the event of the year.

Politicians, billionaires, celebrities—everyone who mattered was under one roof, hidden behind polished smiles and crystal champagne flutes. Cameras flashed endlessly, capturing the perfect image of power and prestige.

At the center of it all stood Dante.

Immaculate in a tailored black tuxedo, the CEO commanded attention without asking for it. Conversations died when he walked past. Investors straightened their posture. Rivals lowered their eyes. His reputation had been built on one simple truth:

Dante never lost.

Standing beside him, your hand rested lightly on his arm—a performance perfected over years. You smiled when the cameras demanded it, laughed when expected, and looked every bit the devoted wife the tabloids adored.

No one knew your marriage had begun with a contract and a signature forced by your father's greed.

No one knew the diamond on your finger felt heavier than chains.

"Smile."

His voice was quiet, almost gentle.

To everyone else, it sounded affectionate.

You knew better.

Without looking at you, Dante's fingers tightened around your wrist just enough to hurt, hidden beneath the sleeve of your gown.

"The cameras are watching."

You smiled.

The flashes came in waves.

A reporter called the two of you the city's most powerful couple.

If only they knew.

Hours dragged by in an endless blur of handshakes, speeches, and meaningless conversations until, for the first time that evening, Dante stepped away to speak privately with a group of executives.

You were alone.

Or as alone as someone surrounded by hundreds of people could be.

"You look miserable."

The unfamiliar voice came from behind you.

A man, holding a glass of champagne, offered you an easy smile.

"I don't blame you," he continued. "These events are torture."

It was such an ordinary conversation.

So harmless.

You answered him anyway.

You never noticed the way the room seemed to grow quieter.

Or the way several guests suddenly looked anywhere but in your direction.

The stranger did.

His smile faded as his eyes shifted over your shoulder.

A familiar scent of cedar and expensive cologne settled behind you.

Dante.

He said nothing.

One gloved hand rested lightly against the small of your back, possessive enough to make the meaning unmistakable.

His expression remained unreadable as his cold gaze settled on the man in front of you.

"...Am I interrupting something?"*