The Rossi mansion was a cage dressed in velvet. Elena had grown up in its gold-dipped halls, under chandeliers worth more than most people's homes, but nights like this made her feel more trapped than ever.
The annual **Ferraro Banquet** was one of the only events that forced every powerful family into the same room. That meant silken dresses, fake laughter, and an ocean of enemies dressed as allies.
It also meant Damian fucking Moretti would be there.
Elena stared at her reflection in the mirror, adjusting the strap of her satin gown. Her mother appeared in the doorway, perfume clouding the air.
"You look beautiful, cara," her mother said, brushing Elena's hair back with an approving smile. "Remember—tonight is about appearances. Smile. Don't let them see cracks."
Elena forced a nod. Smile. Pretend. Play the game. She'd been doing it her whole life.
---
The Ferraro estate glittered with crystal and smoke when they arrived. Men in tailored suits whispered deals by the bar; women in diamonds cut smiles sharper than glass. String music swelled as servers floated past with champagne.
And then Elena saw him.
Damian Moretti.
He was impossible to miss — tall, broad-shouldered, tuxedo fitting him like it had been stitched straight onto his skin. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily as he leaned against a marble pillar.
Their eyes locked across the room, and the air shifted, colder and hotter all at once.
He smirked, slow and deliberate, then tipped his glass toward her as if mocking a toast.
Her jaw clenched. She turned away.
---
At the dinner table, fate played its cruel game: assigned seats.
Elena slid into her chair, only to freeze when Damian dropped into the one beside her. Their shoulders nearly brushed.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," she hissed under her breath.
He leaned back lazily, lips curved. "Relax, princess. I'm not thrilled either. Guess the Ferraros have a twisted sense of humor."
"Or maybe they just like watching trainwrecks."
"Then you better behave," he said smoothly, eyes glinting. "Wouldn't want Daddy Rossi to see his little girl lose her shit in public."
Her nails bit into her napkin. "Eat your fucking steak, Moretti."
---
The meal was endless. Servers paraded dishes of roasted lamb, silver platters gleamed, champagne poured like water. Elena tried to focus on the polite conversation around her, but Damian was a constant heat at her side.
His knee brushed hers under the table. Once. Twice. By the third time, she realized it wasn't an accident.
She shot him a glare. "Stop."
He took a slow sip of wine, not looking at her. "Stop what?"
"Don't play dumb."
He finally turned, mouth so close she could feel his breath. "If I wanted to touch you, princess, you wouldn't be able to stop me."
Her stomach flipped violently, rage tangled with heat. "Try it and I'll stab this fork through your hand."
His grin widened, dangerous and amused. "See? That's the fire I like."
---
The banquet dragged on — speeches, handshakes, veiled threats coated in sugar. But Elena couldn't focus. Every nerve was tuned to Damian beside her: the way his sleeve brushed hers, the way his cologne mixed with smoke and bourbon, the way his voice dipped when he leaned in just to taunt her.
Finally, she excused herself, heels clicking against marble as she slipped out into the balcony for air. The night was cool, the city lights glittering below like fallen stars.
Of course, Damian followed.
"Stalking me now?" she snapped, wrapping her arms around herself.
"Please." He lit another cigarette, flame briefly illuminating his sharp jawline. "If I were stalking you, you'd never notice."
"Charming."
He blew smoke into the night, eyes on her. "You hate being here, don't you?"
She froze, caught off guard. "What makes you think you know anything about me?"
"Because I feel the same." His voice was low, edged with something rawer than usual. "These banquets, the fake smiles, the vultures pretending to be kings… It's all bullshit."
For once, he wasn't smirking. For once, he looked real. Human.
Elena's chest tightened. She hated it. Hated the pull in her stomach, the way her heart betrayed her.
She turned away sharply. "Don't try to make me think we're alike, Moretti. We're not."
The smirk returned, but softer, almost knowing. "Keep telling yourself that, princess."
His hand brushed hers on the balcony railing — brief, burning. Her pulse spiked.
Before she could pull away, a voice called from inside. "Elena! Damian! Back in, they're doing the toast!"
The spell broke. They stepped apart instantly, masks snapping back on.
Elena walked back into the glittering hall, chin high, pretending nothing had happened.
But her hand still burned where his had touched.
And deep down, she knew pretending wouldn't save her.