All That Was Forgotten

Chapter 4

"Come, Isolda."

Grandfather's voice cut through the low hum of conversation. He extended his free hand to me, the gold of his signet ring glinting beneath the chandelier's light. Around him stood a circle of middle-aged men. Tall, broad and sharp-edged in their sleek black suits. Power clinging to them like the scent of smoke and money, as their gazes swept over me with the slow hunger of predators sizing up its prey.

I forced my feet to move, stepping into their web. My grandfather's fingers closing around mine, firm and possessive, as if to remind me who I belonged to, while their eyes followed. Assessing, appraising, while I pretended not to notice, even as my stomach turned.

"This," Grandfather announced, his cane tapping once against the marble floor, "is my granddaughter, Isolda." His voice carried the weight of legacy and threat. "I'm sure you've all heard of her?"

A few of them nodded, murmuring polite acknowledgments. One smiled, thin and predatory.

"What is it are you claiming tonight, Signor Lorenzo?" someone asked.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Grandfather said, his tone almost careless, as if I'm nothing more than another asset in his empire.

My pulse faltered. He didn't even glance at me when he said it. He didn't need to. I was just standing there like a price, ready to be auctioned to the highest bidder.

I bit the inside of my cheek, willing my expression to stay neutral. My lips curving into what I hoped looked like a smile, though it felt brittle.

"She's my heir," he added finally, pride gleaming in his icy blue eyes like the edge of a blade.

"Gr—Nonno, apologies for the interruption," I said quietly, my voice barely audible over the music in the ballroom. "But may I ask, what do you need me for?"

"Right," Grandfather said at last, straightening with a low chuckle that made the other men follow like obedient echoes. His presence alone demanded that kind of mimicry. "Why don't you have a dance with Dario, dear?"

He gestured toward the youngest man in the circle, somewhere around my age. "Our newly appointed Consigliere in New York. His father passed away a month ago. You grew up there. You two must have something in common. Go on, cara, don't be shy."

My smile felt practiced by now. Too polished, too empty. But I gave a small nod anyway, as Dario stepped forward. His expression was confident, his movements smooth as he extended a hand to me.

He looked every inch the classic Italian son, with his sun-kissed skin, dark hair perfectly slicked back, and those deep brown eyes that seemed to study me with a mix of charm and curiosity. The kind of man people expected to be dangerous, but well-mannered about it.

I placed my gloved hand in his, the weight of the room's attention pressing against my back. Every pair of eyes followed us as he led me to the center of the ballroom, where the first notes of a waltz began to play.

I couldn't help but wonder if he was watching. Alexandre Barinov, or Alaric Voss, as he claimed to be. He must be somewhere in the crowd, hidden behind that unreadable gaze.

Dario pulled me close. One hand holding mine, the other resting at the small of my bare back, right at the dip of my dress. I flashed him a smile, trying to keep a respectful distance, but the dance required us to be closer than I was comfortable with. It's a waltz, after all. It's supposed to be intimate, blurring the line between performance and affection.

And they were playing Grandfather's favorite.

My chest tightened, recalling the stories I've heard. How he had danced to this very song with my late grandmother on their wedding night. The last of our bloodline to ever marry for love, after my father, his son. After her death, he had made sure no one else would. Love, he said, was a weakness. And weakness had no place in the empire he had sacrificed so much to build.

Now here I am, spinning beneath the chandeliers under his watchful eye, pretending that the legacy he forged doesn't feel like a noose tightening around my neck.

Dario guided me through a turn, and the room spun softly around us. Gold, crystal, velvet, all the faces blurred into a single shimmering backdrop. But just as I came back to face the crowd that surrounded us, my breath caught.

There he was.

Alexandre.

Standing at the edge of the ballroom, half-shadowed beneath a column. He took a drag out of his cigar, the smoke flying out of his mouth as he watched me with a stillness that felt dangerous. Like he's studying me. Looking for answers I didn't have.

I forced myself to look away, pretending that I hadn't seen him. That he wasn't the only one my pulse reacted to. Pretending that I didn't feel the air tightening around me like an invisible thread, trying to pull us closer.

Dario twirled me again, and when he drew me back in, he pulled me just an inch closer. Closer than the dance required. Not inappropriate, but definitely not accidental either. His breath brushed my ear.

"Are you alright?" he murmured, his voice low, his hand firm at my back, as if he could feel the shift in my body.

"I'm fine," I lied, my smile practiced, hollow.

But I could still feel him watching me. That piercing green gaze burning into my spine with an intensity that made it just impossible to ignore.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Dario whispered, studying me.

I gave him a small, rueful smile. This is the second time tonight that someone has told me that. And no matter how many times the waltz had spun me across the polished floor, I felt it. The weight of his stare, tracking me. Stalking me. Unmoving, unreadable, far too aware of every step I was taking.

The music eventually softened, drifting into its final notes, and the dancers slowed with it. Dario eased his hold, but he didn't step back, not fully until the last chord dissolved into applause. And even then, he kept my hand in his.

I could feel the weight of the room's attention settling on us as he lifted my gloved hand, slowly and deliberately, and brought it to his lips. His mouth brushed the silk fabric. Warm, soft and lingering just enough to make my breath catch in my throat. A perfectly courteous gesture.

But unmistakably intentional. Like he was aware of the attention he was getting.

Still, I let him lead me away from the dance floor, and only when we made it to the side, did he stop in his tracks. I turned to him, curious, clasping my hand in front of me as he studied me for a beat longer than necessary.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked.

"Wine, please," I said.

He gave a polite smile and slipped away through the crowd, disappearing almost instantly into the sea of suits and glittering gowns, heading towards the bar.

I should've stayed where I was. I should've waited. Pretended. Done the polite thing expected of me.

But my pulse was still uneven. My breath too shallow, from the intensity of those eyes. And curiosity, or something far more reckless, pulled me toward the shadows at the edge of the ballroom. The place where I'd seen him just moments earlier.

The crowd blurred around me as I made my way across the polished marble floor. My heels tapping softly between the conversations and music. Laughter swelled, crystal glasses clinked, couples returning to the dance floor in sweeping circles of silk and shadow.

Yet, I slipped through them like a ghost.

Drawn to the shadows, where the lights didn't quite reach.