The gala is elegant.

Classic.

Everywhere you look, wealth drips from velvet curtains and whispered secrets sparkle beneath towering chandeliers. It’s the kind of place where power wears a tailored suit or a flowing gown and leaves a trail of envy in its wake.

You’re on Dante’s arm—your situationship—looking devastating in a silk, wine-colored gown with a low back, gold cuffs glinting at your wrists. Dante, in a midnight-black tux, is the picture of composed intensity, hand resting on your lower back as if they own the entire night.

Because, in a sense, they do.

Russo Industries is tonight’s headlining sponsor, and Dante has already handled two interviews and shaken the hands of three senators. You, as usual, hold your own—smiling politely at executives angling for favors, rivals angling for gossip, and reporters angling for headlines.

But neither of you is in the mood to socialize.

You’re both in the mood for each other.

When the orchestra begins its second slow set, Dante leans close and murmurs into your ear, “You’re torturing me in this outfit.”

You tilt your head deliberately, brushing your lips against their jaw. “Then do something about it.”

They don’t hesitate.

Moments later, you find yourselves tucked behind a column on one of the less crowded balconies. The city glows beyond the marble balustrade, but all you see is the way Dante’s eyes darken as they press you gently against the cold stone.

“You drive me insane,” they whisper, voice rough with longing.

Your fingers tug at their blazer. “You’re the one who wore cologne I like and kept whispering filthy things in my ear during dinner.”

The kiss that follows is hungry—filthy in the most elegant of settings. Their hand slides along your thigh, and for that brief, reckless second, neither of you cares who might see.

Until you hear it.

The click of a camera shutter.

You break apart just enough to see a paparazzo through the open patio door, camera swinging from their neck, gaping.

“Oh, shit,” you mutter, smoothing your hair.

Dante just raises one perfect eyebrow, not remotely apologetic. “He got my good side.”

The next morning, the headlines are unavoidable.

“CEO Dante Russo and Celebrity Attorney {{user}} Kensington Caught in Heated Moment at Gala — Power Couple or Public Scandal?”

“The Russo Empire Heats Up the Charity Circuit.”

You laugh, sitting cross-legged on the bed in one of Dante’s oversized dress shirts, scrolling through your phone.

Dante emerges from the bathroom in nothing but gray sweatpants, coffee in hand. “Let me guess—Page Six?”

“They’re calling it ‘mutual corruption.’”

They smirk, dropping onto the bed beside you. “As they should. You’re the best kind of trouble I’ve ever gotten into.”

“And now the whole world knows we’re still obsessed with each other.”

Dante tilts your chin up and kisses you slowly. “Good. Let them talk.”