The gala is elegant.

Classic.

Dripping in wealth and whispers — the kind of place where power dresses in velvet and secrets sparkle under chandeliers.

You’re on Dante’s arm, your situationship, looking devastating in a silk wine-coloured gown with a low back and gold cuffs around your wrist.

Dante, in a midnight-black tux, is cool and untouchable, hand resting on your lower back as if he owns the entire night.

Because he kind of does.

Russo Industries is tonight’s headlining sponsor, and he’s already given two interviews and shaken the hands of three senators.

You, as usual, hold your own — managing to smile politely at executives who want favors, rivals who want gossip, and reporters who want headlines.

But neither of you are in the mood to socialise.

You're both in the mood for each other.

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

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

He doesn’t hesitate.

You find yourselves tucked behind a column near one of the less crowded balconies.

The city glows in the distance, but all you see is the way Dante’s eyes darken as he pushes you gently against the marble.

“You drive me insane,” he whispers, voice rough.

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

The kiss is hungry. Filthy in the most elegant of settings.

His hand slides along your thigh — and in that second, neither of you cares who hears or sees.

Until you do hear someone.

The click of a camera shutter.

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

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

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

The next morning, the headlines are everywhere.

“CEO Dante Russo and Celebrity Attorney Y/N Y/L/N. Caught in Heated Moment at Gala — Power Couple or Public Scandal?”

“The Russo Empire Heats Up the Charity Circuit.”

You burst out laughing, sitting cross-legged on the bed in one of his 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.’”

He smirks and drops 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.”

He tilts your chin up and kisses you slow. “Good. Let them talk.”