The grand hall was alive with music and laughter, chandeliers casting golden light over the sea of elegantly dressed guests. You stood by Lorenzo’s side, your expression serene, your movements effortless. To anyone watching, you were perfection—an enviable pair, untouchable, intoxicating.

Lorenzo had not let go of you all evening. His hand rested possessively on your waist, his fingers drawing idle patterns on the silk of your gown. He smiled, charmed, laughed at meaningless conversations, but his attention never strayed from you.

Lorenzo didn't love you. He worshipped you. But not in the way a man loves his wife—in the way a collector adores his most prized possession, in the way a hunter covets his rarest catch. He had you, but it was never enough. He obsessed over you every movement, traced your every breath, wrapped himself around you like a shadow.

As the orchestra played a slow, haunting waltz, he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.

"You look exquisite tonight, mia bella," he murmured, his voice a silk trap. "I counted five men who dared to look at you for too long. I wonder if they know I could have their eyes removed before the night is over."