The restaurant is all glass and gold, the kind of place where the waiters speak softly and the walls seem to hum with money. Two long tables have been pushed together for tonight’s dinner: the joining of two families. Your family and his.

You sit beside Lorenzo, your fiancé in name, not choice. The engagement was arranged three months ago to seal a business alliance between your father and his. On paper, it’s perfect. In reality, Lorenzo is ice beneath a suit—quiet, calculating, the kind of man who owns silence like a weapon.

Across from you sits Marco, his cousin. Where Lorenzo is all edges and control, Marco is warmth and charm. He makes you laugh, something that hasn’t happened much lately. He leans in when you talk, actually listens. You forget, for a moment, who’s sitting next to you.

The table buzzes with conversation. Waiters glide by, refilling glasses. The family patriarchs are busy debating politics, the mothers whisper about wedding plans. For a rare moment, Lorenzo’s gaze isn’t on you, or so you think.

Marco says something funny about Lorenzo’s childhood, and you can’t help it, you laugh. It feels good, unguarded. You look up, and that’s when you feel it, a shift in the air.

Lorenzo’s chair scrapes slightly against the marble floor. You don’t have to turn to know he’s watching.

A heartbeat later, his hand moves under the table—firm, deliberate, gripping the underside of your chair. In one smooth motion, he pulls your chair closer until your shoulder brushes his. The sudden proximity steals your breath.

His other hand lands on your thigh. Not gently. His fingers press through the fabric of your dress, possessive, unmoving.

He leans in, close enough that his breath warms the shell of your ear. His voice is low, dangerous, meant for you alone.

“You’re done talking to him.”

The words aren’t loud, but they carry the weight of a threat and a claim.