The car rolled to a stop in front of the Grand Marcellus Hotel, its glass front lit up like a diamond in the night. Paparazzi lined the entrance in a frenzy, flashbulbs bursting like fireworks with every luxury car that pulled up. But when the Blackwell limousine arrived, the crowd surged forward, almost collectively holding their breath.
The back door opened.
Dante Blackwell stepped out first—ruthless, regal, untouchable in a black tuxedo tailored like it was stitched onto sin itself. His presence was absolute, the kind of power that made people part like the Red Sea.
Then he turned and held out his hand.
Selene swallowed, placing her gloved hand into his.
The world slowed for a heartbeat as she stepped out in a midnight-blue silk gown that clung to her curves like a secret. Her skin glowed under the lights. The delicate diamond necklace—one of Dante's many lavish gifts—sparkled at her throat like a noose.
Gasps rippled across the red carpet.
Reporters clamored for attention.
"Mr. Blackwell, is it true you just got married?"
"Who is she? Where is Camilla Devereaux?"
"Mrs. Blackwell, do you have a comment on your sudden wedding?"
Selene held her head high, masking the anxiety twisting in her stomach. She could feel the eyes, the judgment, the speculation. They weren't just looking at her—they were dissecting her. Measuring whether she was worthy of standing beside a man like Dante Blackwell.
Dante, of course, said nothing. He simply walked forward, hand on the small of her back, guiding her like a prize.
As they reached the press barricade, the questions grew louder.
"Are the rumors true—was this marriage arranged?"
"Dante, are you still in touch with Camilla?"
"Mrs. Blackwell, do you know about the engagement that was called off just weeks ago?"
Selene's heart pounded, but she kept her expression serene. This was the game. She knew it before she stepped out of the car. Play the role. Smile. Survive.
Then it happened.
A hush fell over the crowd.
The reporters suddenly shifted their cameras to the side, and Selene instinctively followed their gaze.
A woman in white walked up the carpet like she owned the universe.
Camilla Devereaux.
Stunning, arrogant, deliberate.
She wore a pearl-white couture gown with a deep plunging neckline and a slit up to her thigh—too bridal, too obvious. Her blonde curls were perfectly arranged, her lipstick a weaponized red. A designer clutch hung from her wrist like a blade.
The cameras flashed like mad.
Selene stiffened as Camilla approached—heels clicking against the carpet like gunshots.
"Dante," she purred, ignoring Selene completely.
Then, in front of the entire crowd, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to Dante's cheek. Not a greeting. Not a goodbye.
A mark.
A claim.
Selene's breath hitched. Her stomach dropped.
The cameras caught it all.
Dante's chiseled profile, the lip gloss on his cheek, Selene's frozen expression beside him.
Reporters went wild. "Camilla, what are you doing?"
"Is this a love triangle?"
"Dante, care to explain?"
Selene stared at him.
Say something.
Anything.
Defend me.
But Dante didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even glance at her.
He looked away as if she wasn't there—like she was invisible.
The world blurred for a moment.
Selene felt like she was underwater, her pulse pounding in her ears, the cold seep of humiliation drowning her in front of hundreds of flashing lights.
She turned slowly, without a word, and walked up the steps to the ballroom alone—her heels steady, her pride cracking with every echoing step.
Inside, laughter and jazz filled the marble ballroom like smoke. Gold chandeliers glittered above a sea of elites. Champagne flutes clinked. Smiles were sharp. Nothing about the night was kind.
Selene barely saw any of it.
She walked toward the far corner of the room, head held high even as her throat burned.
Behind her, Dante was still outside—with Camilla.
Her fists clenched.
"Mrs. Blackwell," someone murmured behind her.
She turned to find a silver-haired woman in diamonds sipping a cocktail. "Lovely to finally meet the new bride. You clean up well... though not quite Camilla's level."
Selene smiled tightly. "Thank you. I aim slightly above mediocre on good days."
The woman blinked, clearly not expecting the bite.
Selene walked away before she could respond.
Another voice followed.
"So, this is the girl who stole Camilla's crown."
A group of women in glittering gowns eyed her like a curiosity at auction.
"Not much of a threat," one of them whispered loudly. "No pedigree. No power. She looks like a social experiment."
Selene swallowed the knot in her throat and kept moving.
She was almost to the balcony when she felt a presence behind her.
Dante.
She turned slowly, heart hammering in her chest.
He looked unbothered. Controlled. Cold.
"You left," he said flatly.
"You didn't notice," she replied, her voice clipped. "Too busy being kissed by your ex."
A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he didn't explain.
Didn't apologize.
Didn't deny.
"What the hell was that, Dante?" she asked quietly. "You stood there like I didn't exist."
"We're not here for personal drama," he said coolly. "You knew what tonight was. Appearances. That's all."
Selene stared at him, disbelief hardening into fury.
"Right," she said. "Just business."
And with that, she turned her back to him again.
She stood on the balcony later, alone with the stars. The night air was cold against her bare shoulders, but she didn't care.
The city lights below blinked like distant truths.
She had married the devil to save her sister.
And now she was paying the price in a thousand small cuts.
Behind her, she heard a door open.
She didn't look back. "If it's you, Dante, I don't want to hear it."
But it wasn't Dante.
It was someone else.
A stranger.
Or almost a stranger.
Tall, broad-shouldered. Sharp cheekbones. Blue eyes like winter rain.
"Forgive the interruption," he said with a sly smile. "But I think you might need rescuing."
She blinked.
"And who exactly are you?"
He held out his hand. "Julian Lark. Old friend of Camilla's. Occasional enemy of Dante's. And very curious about the woman who just made the most powerful man in this room look like a fool."
Selene didn't take his hand. But she didn't walk away, either.
"Your wife's prettier than you deserve," Julian said, his tone mocking as he glanced past her—where Dante had appeared in the doorway.
The tension was instant. Electric.
Dante's eyes met Julian's. Then Selene's.
And something dangerous flickered behind them.
Possession.
Jealousy.
Warning.
But Selene didn't move. Not this time.
She stared back at Dante, her chin lifted, her voice calm as she spoke to Julian.
"Careful," she said. "Some people don't like to share."
Julian laughed softly.
And Dante?
He turned and walked away again—this time, without a word.
The cameras may have stopped flashing, but Selene felt it all over again.
She had been claimed.
But never defended.
And maybe… never loved.