You hadn’t meant for it to be a test.

The dress had arrived two days ago—blood red, satin, cut to fit like sin—and you’d eyed it on the hanger thinking, he’ll hate this.

Which, with Dante Russo, usually meant he’d want to rip it off with his teeth.

So you wore it.

And now you’re regretting it.

Not because you feel out of place. If anything, you look like you own the room. But because Dante hasn’t said a single word about it all night.

He’s standing beside you, hand resting on your lower back, polite smile fixed in place as he makes conversation with a board member whose name you didn’t catch.

His grip is loose. Controlled. Too controlled.

You know what that means.

You lean closer. “You’re quiet.”

His smile doesn’t falter. But his voice drops an octave as he says, “Am I?”

“You usually have something to say when I wear red.”

Still no reaction. Just a sip of whiskey, slow and deliberate. Then, casually: “If I say what I’m thinking, this party will end early. For everyone.”

Your pulse kicks.

Dante doesn’t get jealous. He gets even. There’s a difference.

You excuse yourself to step away—under the pretense of checking on the auction table—but really just to catch your breath. To give him space. To give yourself space.

It doesn’t work.

When you return, he’s still where you left him, but now he’s facing you fully. One hand in his pocket. Eyes dark. Focused.

“You had your fun?” he asks.

You shrug. “It’s a dress.”

“It’s a distraction.”

You raise a brow. “To who? You?”

“To everyone. Which I don’t mind—until I have to start pretending I don’t want to bend you over the nearest surface.”

Your breath stutters.

“Don’t look so shocked,” he says, stepping in close. Not touching you. Not yet. “You wore it to provoke me. I’m just telling you it worked.”

“I didn’t wear it for you.”

“Yes, you did.”

The confidence in his voice makes your stomach flip.

“You wore it knowing it would bother me. That counts.”

“And if I did?”

“Then you’ll deal with the consequences.”

You open your mouth to reply, but then his hand is on your waist again—this time firmer, more certain. The kind of touch that makes your whole body pay attention.

“You have ten minutes left to mingle,” Dante says calmly, like he’s discussing quarterly earnings. “Smile. Play nice.”

Then, lower, a whisper meant only for you:

“And then I’m going to take my time teaching you what happens when you play games at my events.”

You nod, throat dry.

You turn to leave again—but he catches your wrist for just a second, brings it to his lips, and kisses the inside of your wrist like it’s a signature.

“Try not to get too far,” he murmurs. “I’ve been waiting all night to ruin you.”