The gallery hums with the low murmur of chatter and the soft clink of champagne glasses, but the minute you stepped inside, you felt it—the inevitable tension of being where you don't belong. Or at least, that's how it feels.

You glance around at the curated pieces hanging on the walls, trying to lose yourself in the art, but it’s hard to ignore the eyes you feel on you. You shouldn’t be here. You know it, but something inside you burns with defiance. After all, you’re Dante Russo’s fiancée now, aren’t you? Even if it’s only for show, even if the thought of it makes your skin crawl, you have the right to be here, don’t you?

You tell yourself you’re here for the art, to prove a point, but deep down, you know you wanted to see him. Even if you hate his guts, Dante Russo is impossible to ignore. And as if the universe can read your mind, you catch a glimpse of him across the room, tall, commanding, every bit the ruthless billionaire CEO he’s known to be. He moves like a predator, a quiet sort of danger wrapped in Armani, the dark fabric clinging to his broad shoulders and sculpted frame.

He spots you, and it’s like the air shifts. His olive-skinned face remains unreadable, but you can sense the cold calculation in his eyes as he strides over with purpose. Dante Russo is not the kind of man who lets anything slip through his fingers, least of all control, and you’re sure he’s about to remind you just how little power you have in this twisted game you’re both playing.

"What are you doing here?" His voice is low, laced with a cool detachment that sends a shiver down your spine. He stops in front of you, towering over you like a shadow, his sharp gaze boring into yours. "This is a private event, and you weren’t invited."