Elena's POV
I'm going to throw up.
The black car that picked me up is nicer than any place I've ever lived. The driver opened my door like I'm someone important instead of a broke college student wearing a five-year-old dress from Target. And now we're pulling up to Luminaire—the restaurant I've only seen in magazines that cost more than my grocery budget.
"We've arrived, Miss Russo," the driver says politely.
My hands are shaking. This is insane. I should tell him to turn around and take me home. Billionaires don't date girls like me. This has to be some kind of joke or mistake or—
The car door opens, and Dante Moretti is standing there.
He's even more beautiful than I remembered, which seems impossible. He's wearing a dark suit that probably costs more than my entire education, but it's his eyes that freeze me in place—those cold gray eyes that somehow make me feel like I'm the only person in the world.
"Elena." He extends his hand to help me out of the car. "You look beautiful."
I definitely don't. My dress is cheap and outdated, my shoes are scuffed, and I did my own makeup because I can't afford a salon. But the way he's looking at me—like I actually am beautiful—makes my cheeks burn.
"Thank you," I whisper, taking his hand. His fingers are warm and strong, and I try not to think about how perfectly my hand fits in his.
The restaurant is terrifying. Everyone here looks rich and important. The women drip with diamonds, and the men wear watches that could pay my rent for a year. I feel like an imposter, like someone's going to point and laugh and throw me out.
But Dante's hand settles on the small of my back, guiding me through the room like I belong here. Like I'm someone worth protecting.
We're led to a private section away from everyone else. Soft music plays. Candles flicker on the table. It's the most romantic thing I've ever seen.
"I hope this isn't too much," Dante says as he pulls out my chair.
Too much? This is a fairy tale.
"It's perfect," I breathe.
He smiles—not the cold expression from the hospital, but something warmer. Almost genuine. "Good. I wanted tonight to be special."
A waiter appears with wine that probably costs more than my textbooks. I've never had real wine before, just the cheap stuff from corner stores. This tastes like velvet and makes my head pleasantly fuzzy.
"Tell me about yourself, Elena," Dante says, leaning forward. His full attention is on me, and it's intoxicating. "What are you studying?"
"Literature," I say, then immediately feel stupid. "I know it's not practical. Everyone tells me I should study business or nursing or something useful. But I love stories. I love how they can transport you somewhere else, make you feel things, give you hope when real life is..." I trail off, embarrassed. "Sorry, I'm rambling."
"Don't apologize." His voice is soft. "I like listening to you. What kind of stories do you love?"
"The ones with happy endings," I admit. "I know that's childish. Real life doesn't work like that. But I still believe that good things can happen to people who deserve them. That love can conquer everything. That—" I stop, mortified. "God, you must think I'm so naive."
Dante is quiet for a long moment, studying me with those intense eyes.
"I think," he says slowly, "that you're refreshing. Most people I know are cynical and calculating. You still believe in goodness. That's rare."
My heart swells. He understands.
The dinner is amazing—course after course of food I can't pronounce but tastes incredible. And Dante asks me questions like he actually cares about the answers. About my favorite books. My volunteer work at the hospital. My dreams for the future.
"I want to help people," I tell him. "Maybe become a teacher or a counselor. Something that makes a difference. Money doesn't matter as much as doing something meaningful with your life. Does that sound silly?"
"No." Something flickers across his face—an emotion I can't read. "It sounds noble."
"What about you?" I ask. "What do you want?"
His jaw tightens slightly. "To survive. To protect what's mine. To make sure I never become weak."
The words are harsh, but there's pain underneath them. Like someone hurt him badly and he's never recovered.
Without thinking, I reach across the table and touch his hand.
"Being kind isn't weak," I say softly. "Caring about people doesn't make you vulnerable. It makes you human."
Dante stares at my hand on his. For a second, his expression cracks—I see something raw and broken underneath the cold exterior. Something that makes my heart ache.
Then his mask slides back into place.
"You're dangerous, Elena Russo," he murmurs.
"Me? Dangerous?" I laugh. "I'm the least dangerous person alive."
"That's what makes you dangerous." His thumb brushes across my knuckles, sending electricity up my arm. "You make me want to believe in things I stopped believing in a long time ago."
My breath catches. This feels real. This feels like something precious and fragile and impossibly perfect.
"Like what?" I whisper.
His eyes hold mine. "Like happy endings."
The drive back to my apartment feels like floating. Dante walks me to my door—my crumbling, paint-peeling door in a building where the elevator doesn't work.
"Thank you for tonight," I say, suddenly shy. "I had the best time."
"So did I." He cups my face gently, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. "Can I see you again?"
"Yes. God, yes."
He smiles—a real smile that transforms his whole face—and leans down slowly, giving me time to pull away.
I don't pull away.
His lips brush mine, soft and careful, like I'm something precious. It's my first kiss, and it's perfect. Absolutely perfect.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark and unreadable.
"Goodnight, Elena."
"Goodnight, Dante."
I float into my apartment, my lips still tingling, my heart racing. This is happening. A billionaire just kissed me. A beautiful, broken man who sees something special in me.
This is the beginning of my fairy tale.
I'm pulling out my phone to text Sarah about everything when I notice something strange.
A black car is still parked across the street. Not Dante's driver—a different car. And someone inside is watching my building.
My stomach drops.
The car's been there since we arrived. Just sitting. Watching.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number:
"Stay away from Dante Moretti if you know what's good for you. You don't belong in his world. This is your only warning."
My hands start shaking. I look back at the black car, and the headlights flash once. A threat.
Then it drives away, leaving me standing in my doorway with my heart pounding and my fairy tale suddenly feeling like a nightmare.
Who was that? Why are they warning me about Dante?
And why do I have the terrible feeling that I just made the biggest mistake of my life?