The flash of cameras was relentless, and Anastasia Laurent forced her stiffest smile as Dante's fingers laced around hers like chains. Her heart hammered in her chest—lips still tingling from the kiss he'd stolen so publicly. Her head buzzed from the frenzy around them, from the crowd chanting and reporters screaming questions as they made their way toward the gala entrance.
Dante smirked, perfectly calm in his tailored black tuxedo, a man who thrived under the weight of attention. Anastasia, on the other hand, fought the tremor in her jaw as they stepped onto the red carpet. Her heels clicked beside his, her posture elegant and composed, but beneath the surface? A volcano threatened to erupt.
Once inside the dazzling venue—where gold chandeliers glistened and a symphony swelled softly in the background—Anastasia exhaled.
"Was that really necessary?" she whispered, still holding her smile. "We're supposed to act like lovers in public, not... not do that."
Dante's smirk deepened. "Are you telling me it wasn't convincing?"
She turned to glare at him—lips parted to deliver a sharp response—when a distinguished couple approached them, interrupting her train of thought.
Before she could speak, Dante slid his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. "Meet my fiancée," he said smoothly. "Anastasia Laurent."
Her breath caught.
Fiancée?
The couple beamed in surprise, clearly impressed. Dante's grip didn't loosen—in fact, it tightened as if daring her to contradict him. Anastasia clenched her teeth, still smiling, her cheeks burning under the scrutiny.
"You're even more stunning than the papers described," the woman gushed. "He's lucky to have found someone like you."
The couple drifted off, and Anastasia turned to him again, voice low. "Fiancée?"
Dante leaned in close to her ear. "People love a good love story. Let's not disappoint."
Before she could argue, another presence approached. She turned—and her breath caught again.
A woman in an elegant black gown with shimmering midnight hair stood before them. Her beauty was striking, her features sculpted and camera-perfect. She smiled at Anastasia first, warm and radiant, then turned her attention to Dante.
"Dante," she said, voice smooth.
Dante's entire demeanor shifted. The cold aloofness melted—his expression softened in a way Anastasia had never seen before.
"This," he said, his voice gentler, "is my sister. Isadora."
Anastasia blinked.
His sister?
Isadora extended her hand, her smile sincere. "So you're the one who managed to tame him."
Anastasia took the hand with a soft laugh. "Hardly. I'm still trying to figure out if it's even possible."
Isadora chuckled. "You're beautiful. I'm glad he chose well."
Anastasia smiled, caught off guard by her warmth, but didn't have time to dwell on it. A new wave of guests approached—eager, familiar.
"Stasia!" a woman's voice shrilled.
Her heart sank.
Her father's distant relatives—Laurents she barely knew—surrounded her like vultures in designer gowns and overpriced cologne. They smiled, arms outstretched, acting as if they hadn't spent the past decade pretending she didn't exist.
"How's your mother, dear?" one of them asked sweetly.
"I heard it's been hard since your father passed," another chimed in. "The company… I thought it was collapsing?"
Anastasia's smile didn't falter. "Thank you for your concern. Everything is running smoothly now, thanks to… timely partnerships."
Dante's hand didn't move from her waist.
Then came the next storm.
Maxime Anstorne.
With him walked his ever-composed wife, Madeline, and their daughter—Juliette. Juliette's eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of Anastasia in Dante's embrace, but her lips stretched into a plastic-perfect smile.
"Anastasia," Maxime said, voice booming, "you look… domesticated. As it should be. Women should enjoy life—get married, be pampered. Let the real work fall to others."
Anastasia's smile sharpened. "That's a shame. I'm not one of those women."
Dante tilted his head, eyes locked on Maxime. "And I wouldn't want her to be."
The tension was immediate, but civilized. Madeline stepped forward, tone sweet as syrup. "It's lovely to meet you, Dante."
"Mr Montgomery," Dante corrected, cool and unfazed.
Juliette stepped forward, looping her arm through Anastasia's.
"I'm so happy for you," she said with a smile that didn't touch her eyes. "Come. Let's catch up."
Anastasia hesitated, then nodded. Juliette led her a few steps away, engaging in small talk while Anastasia listened politely with a forced smile . Behind her, Madeline gave Juliette a subtle glance. Juliette caught the cue and smiled wider before disengaging to greet another guest.
And then—
"Anastasia!"
The familiar, dramatic voice sliced through the crowd like a knife.
Caroline had arrived.
In a storm of gold satin, curls pinned up in organized chaos, she approached like she owned the room. Her eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Your man," she said, lips curling into a smirk, "is behaving like he's madly in love. And I love it."
Anastasia laughed under her breath, tension easing slightly.
But just then—
A deep voice called her name.
She turned.
And her smile widening.
"Lucien Moreau," she said slowly, recognizing him instantly. Tall. Icy. Blue eyed. The man Caroline had once crashed her car into, leading to a full-blown police scene.
Caroline stiffened beside her eyes widening. "Wait—you know him?"
Lucien's gaze flicked to Caroline. A brow arched. "We've met."
Anastasia bit back a laugh.
Caroline's mouth dropped open. "That's the guy whose bumper I—"
Lucien smirked. "Yes. That would be me."
Caroline blinked, speechless for once.
And just like that, the gala had become far more dangerous… and entertaining.