Milan's elite had gathered for the annual Fondazione per l'Arte charity gala, an event less about generosity and more about appearances. The chandeliers dripped with crystal light, painting the gilded ballroom in gold. Silk gowns shimmered like water under the glow, champagne glasses clinked, and the soft hum of violins laced the air.
Elena Rossi hated every second of it.
Her black gown swept the marble floor as she ascended the steps, every camera flash burning her retinas. They didn't want to photograph her, they wanted the heiress who was drowning in her father's debts, the Rossi princess clinging to a failing empire.
Sofia leaned close, whispering as they crossed the threshold. "Smile, Elena. At least pretend you are enjoying yourself."
"I would rather be in the factory," Elena muttered. "At least there people are honest about what they want."
But then she saw him.
Dante Moretti stood near the stage, perfectly cut tuxedo hugging his broad frame, glass of champagne dangling effortlessly between his fingers. He looked as though the room had been built for him, the sharp angles of his jaw carved against the light, his dark eyes surveying the crowd like a king inspecting his court.
When his gaze landed on her, it was like a blade sliding into place. His lips curved, slow and knowing.
"Elena," Sofia murmured under her breath. "Do not cause a scene."
But Elena's jaw was already tightening. She had not forgotten the ultimatum. She had not forgotten the investor fiasco. And she sure as hell had not forgotten that Dante Moretti now owned thirty percent of Rossi Textiles.
The gala wound into speeches. Donors praised their own contributions, officials droned on about Milan's culture, and then the master of ceremonies stepped up with an eager smile.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our final address of the evening will be given by one of Milan's most esteemed businessmen, a man whose empire has transformed industries, Signor Dante Moretti!"
Applause thundered. Elena's stomach twisted.
Dante strode to the podium with effortless confidence, his voice velvet and steel all at once.
"It is an honor," he began, "to stand in this hall, among visionaries who understand that industry isn't just profit, it's legacy. And legacy," his gaze flicked to Elena, sharp and deliberate, "is what separates the strong and the forgotten."
Elena's nails dug into her palm. She knew a veiled attack when she heard one.
Dante continued smoothly, his words calculated. "We live in an age where sentiment can no longer anchor us. Weak companies, no matter how beloved, must give way to stronger hands. To cling to the past, ignoring the tides of change, is not bravery, it's folly."
The crowd hummed approval. Elena felt her blood boil. This was not a speech. It was a public execution of Rossi's name.
Before Sofia could stop her, Elena rose.
Her heels struck marble like a drumbeat as she crossed the floor. The crowd parted instinctively, cameras swiveling, whispers rippling through the hall. She mounted the stage, head held high, and reached the podium before Dante could step down.
"If I may," she said, voice ringing clear, "I would like to add a perspective."
The host looked panicked, but the audience leaned in, hungry.
Elena turned to them, ignoring Dante's piercing stare. "Strength is not measured by the size of one's empire or the weight of one's bank account. Strength is measured by loyalty, by the people who refuse to abandon a legacy simply because it faces hardship."
She let her gaze sweep the room, chin lifted. "My family's company was built stitch by stitch, by men and women who poured their lives into its fabric. To call their devotion folly is not vision, it's arrogance."
A murmur ran through the hall. Someone clapped, then another, until the applause grew.
Dante's smirk tightened into something sharper, but he did not interrupt.
Elena's pulse thrummed with fire. "We do not yield because vultures circle. We fight. And when Rossi Textiles rises again, and it will, it will not be because someone bought it out like a trophy. It will be because we never forgot who we are."
The hall erupted. Cameras flashed, journalists scribbled. Elena turned, stepping away from the podium, every inch the heiress who would not bow.
But Dante stopped her. His hand brushed her arm, light, deliberate. The room seemed to hold its breath.
"Quite the speech," he murmured, his voice low enough only she could hear. "You almost sound like you believe it."
"I do," she hissed. "Every word."
Their faces were inches apart. The press cameras snapped furiously, capturing the tension in the curve of her jaw, the half-smile on his lips, the fire in their locked eyes. To an outsider, it looked less like war and more like foreplay.
"Smile, Elena," Dante whispered. "They are watching."
"Go to hell."
He chuckled, tilting his head as though savoring the moment. "Later, perhaps. For now, let them think what they want."
The flashes intensified. Sofia groaned somewhere in the background.
"What are you doing?" Elena demanded under her breath.
"Shielding you," he said simply, stepping back with that infuriating composure. "A company under siege attracts predators. But a woman who appears to be mine? They will tread carefully. You will thank me later."
Her heart stumbled, fury and confusion warring inside her. "I do not need your protection."
"No," he agreed softly, almost kindly. "But you will take it, whether you admit it or not."
They left the stage to social media ablaze.
#MorettiRossi trended within minutes, speculation running wild, Were they rivals? Lovers? Or both? Newspapers were already drafting tomorrow's front pages with grainy shots of their almost-kiss.
Backstage, Elena spun on him, cheeks flushed with rage. "You humiliated me. You turned me into a headline."
"You did that yourself," Dante replied coolly, loosening his cufflinks. "All I did was give them a story more useful to you than the truth."
"What truth?" she snapped.
"That Rossi is crumbling and you are desperate," he said evenly. "This way, they will see you as untouchable. Dangerous. Off-limits."
Her breath shook. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to thank him. She wanted….., God help her, to close the space between them and see if that half-smile tasted as sharp as it looked.
Instead, she lifted her chin. "You do not get to decide how I'm seen."
"On the contrary," Dante murmured, stepping closer once more, "I have just given you a shield you couldn't have forged alone."
As he walked away, leaving her trembling with fury, Elena realized the truth in his words.
Dante Moretti might be her rival. He might be her tormentor. But tonight, under the blinding glare of cameras, he had shielded her.
And what terrified her most, what she refused to admit even to herself, was that some small, treacherous part of her wanted him to.