The Rossi ballroom glittered with decadence. Chandeliers poured golden light over marble floors, and the air reeked of wealth, perfume, and deceit. The Rossis had staged another gathering under the guise of “unity,” but everyone present knew it was a show of dominance — a reminder that the Rossi name still commanded the city’s veins.
At the center of it all stood Isabella. Dressed in silver silk that clung like liquid moonlight, she wore the mask of a queen. Damian’s queen — or so she let the world believe. Her hand rested possessively on his arm as she paraded him before the vultures in jewels and suits.
But Damian was a storm disguised as a man. His jaw was rigid, his hand limp under Isabella’s touch. His eyes, cold and sharp, were not on her. They scanned the room, searching, hunting.
