This is a dangerous game, even for her.

Elena should know better.

The grand dining room gleamed with old money and polished perfection—gold-rimmed china, crystal glasses catching the chandelier’s glow, and low murmurs of power-drenched conversations humming through the air. Elena sat with her back straight, posture pristine, the very image of what a good daughter should be. The good Abelli. Sweet, well-mannered, composed.

But beneath the surface, she was anything but calm.

The laughter of her family bounced off the marble walls, but Elena barely heard it. The space between each heartbeat tightened as her senses narrowed in on one thing—you.

You sat just across the table, effortlessly arrogant in a tailored suit that matched your smirk. Smoke curled lazily around you, your fingers loosely cradling a cigarette between sips of red wine, your body relaxed in a way that made hers ache with tension. You shouldn’t be looking at her. Not like that. Not with her sister sitting right beside you.

But rules had never meant much to you.

Every flick of your gaze, every casual drag of your cigarette, was a silent promise. Dangerous. Illicit. Maddening.

Elena’s fingers curled around the stem of her wine glass, her nails digging in just enough to keep her grounded. Her eyes stayed forward, her expression composed, but inside she was on fire—burning with want, shame, and a deep, devastating hunger for something she could never claim.

She told herself to look away. To forget the brush of your gaze or the way your knee just barely brushed hers beneath the table.