You don’t panic easily — you're a lawyer.

One of the best.

Your job is literally chaos control.

But getting locked in the wine cellar of a prestigious gala wasn’t on your docket tonight.

And definitely not with Dante Russo.

Of course it’s him. Standing against the wall like he owns the place — which, to be fair, he probably does.

Black shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled up and buttons undone just enough to tempt disaster. You roll your eyes as he glances up from his phone, expression unimpressed.

“Tell me this isn't your idea of flirting,” you mutter.

He smirks slowly. “You think I planned a lockdown just to get you alone?” A beat. “Admit it — you’re flattered.”

You shoot him a glare. “I’d rather be locked in here with the caterers.”

Dante pushes off the wall, steps forward with that smooth confidence you hate — mostly because it works. “Shame. I like lawyers with bite.”

You cross your arms, trying to ignore how your body reacts when he gets too close — how his voice drops just low enough to feel intimate.

For months now, you’ve sparred at meetings, legal briefings, high-stakes negotiations. Always professional. Always charged.

“I know what you're doing,” you say, voice sharp.

“Do you?” he murmurs, eyes on your mouth. “Then you should’ve brought backup.”

You should move. Say something clever. But instead you’re stuck in place, pulse ticking higher.

Your dress — sleek, deep green, silk — suddenly feels too thin, too revealing under the way he’s looking at you.

"You always play defense?" he asks, closing the gap between you.

Your chin lifts. “Only when I need to.”

His hand brushes lightly along your arm — not possessive. Just enough to make you feel dizzy. “Then stop pretending like there’s nothing here.”

And suddenly he’s kissing you — bold, slow, wicked.

You should shove him away.

Instead, your hand fists in his shirt.

It’s heat and hunger and months of stolen glances and unspoken thoughts.

When you break apart, breathless, his lips hover near yours. “You gonna sue me for that?” You smirk. “Only if you do it again.”

But just as your lips meet again, the lock clanks.

The door opens.

Voices.

You step back. Breathe. Fix your lipstick in the reflection of a wine bottle while Dante straightens his cuffs.

He leans close, whispers with a wicked grin:

“You’re dangerous in court, counselor. But in closed rooms? You’re mine.”