Scarlet Ties

CHAPTER THREE

Camila’s POV

The car ride to the studio was silent, except for the soft hum of the engine and my own uneven breathing. My red dress pressed against my skin, daring, alive, and utterly unlike the subdued outfits my mother usually demanded. I had chosen it. For once, something was mine.

Eva sat beside me, scrolling through her phone but occasionally glancing up to see my reflection in the tinted window. “You okay?” she asked softly.

I exhaled, trying to anchor myself. “I will be. I just… hate being a spectacle.”

“Spectacle or not,” she said, “you look incredible. Dante’s not going to know what hit him.”

I bit my lip, unsure if that was reassurance or a warning. My chest tightened at the thought of seeing him again, this time for everyone else to see too.

The studio was buzzing when we arrived. Lights, cameras, assistants, stylists—a small army orchestrating perfection. And there he was.

He stood near the center, dark suit tailored to fit him like it had been painted on, hands clasped loosely in front of him. His presence was quiet, commanding—controlled power that radiated from him without effort.

And yet, for all the grandeur surrounding him, I couldn’t help but notice the small things.

The way his eyes scanned the room, and then locked on me. Not casually, not politely, but deliberately. He noticed. He always noticed.

The slight crease of his brow as he observed me walking toward him, the subtle shift in his stance as if to measure how I carried myself.

I forced myself to walk steadily, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. My chest fluttered—not fear, exactly, but tension. Anticipation. Something sharper, heavier, that I couldn’t name.

He didn’t speak as I approached, but the air between us was taut, a thread stretched tight and ready to snap. I kept my expression neutral, practiced the smile I knew would appear in the public photos. But my eyes… my eyes studied him as much as he studied me.

Not what I expected. Not some snobby, untouchable mafia princess. He is nothing like the stories, the rumors. His control is palpable, yet… he’s human. Real.

I noticed the faint gray flecks in his dark eyes, the curve of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. His suit perfectly tailored, yes, but there was an ease to him, a rhythm I couldn’t explain. Even the slight velvet edge of his voice when he finally spoke carried weight I could feel, even if no one else heard.

“Miss Santos,” he said quietly, his eyes on me, voice soft enough for only me to register. “Are you ready?”

I blinked, suddenly aware that all the lights, cameras, assistants, and stylists had faded into background noise. Only him.

“Yes,” I said, my voice measured, even. But inside, my heart was a drum in my chest.

He nodded once, curt, controlled, then gestured toward the set. “Follow me.”

Every step we took together, the click of my heels against the studio floor, the faint scent of him—clean, warm, and strangely magnetic—made me hyperaware of how little I really knew him, and how much I wanted to. Not as a bride in an alliance. Not as a headline. But as a person.

And that realization… unsettled me more than any spotlight or camera could.

We stepped onto the set, and suddenly the world narrowed. Lights glared, assistants whispered directions, and the cameras clicked and hummed. I forced my shoulders back, chin up, smile in place. This was public. Controlled. Expected.

Dante moved beside me, silent, calm, but somehow every motion he made commanded the space. He didn’t need to raise his voice; his presence alone filled the room.

The photographer greeted us, cheerful, oblivious to the tension radiating between us. “Alright, Dante, Camila—just natural, relaxed poses. Let’s capture the connection.”

I forced a smile at him, careful to keep my hands lightly folded in front of me. Connection. The word made my chest tighten. I barely knew him. And yet, I could feel it already—the pull, the current that ran whenever he was near.

He shifted slightly, stepping closer than necessary, and I felt it: a brush of warmth against my arm. I froze, aware of every heartbeat, every breath. He didn’t comment, didn’t even flinch. But I noticed. I always noticed.

“Perfect,” the photographer said, snapping again. “Turn slightly, Camila… Dante, just a casual glance toward her.”

He obeyed, effortlessly, his dark eyes softening just enough, just for me, before returning to neutral calm. I swallowed and followed the cue, but my pulse betrayed me. His control, even in something as simple as a glance, made me aware of how little I controlled myself around him.

Eva hovered nearby, whispering softly, “You look amazing. Calm, collected… killing it.”

I nodded, though my hands still trembled slightly. Not from fear, exactly, but from the awareness of him. From the knowledge that the man I was supposed to see as an arrangement—business, alliance, practicality—was not what I expected. Not in the slightest.

The photographer moved us closer, instructing subtle touches for “authenticity.” Dante rested a hand lightly on the small of my back. Just a gesture. Controlled, polite, professional. And yet it felt like a shock running through me, an electric pull I didn’t know how to manage.

I caught his glance, and I swear I saw something flicker. Interest? Curiosity? Something that didn’t belong in the polished, untouchable exterior of the man I thought I was marrying into a business deal.

I cleared my throat, adjusting my stance, refusing to give him any hint of what I felt. Practicality first. Composure second. Survival always.

And yet…

When the photographer finally stepped back, reviewing the shots, I noticed Dante’s eyes linger on me longer than necessary. Not for the cameras. Not for the public. For me.

And that, more than any spotlight or lens, unsettled me.

Because in that moment, amid the click of shutters and the hum of lights, I realized something I couldn’t ignore: the danger I was expecting might not be him.

Dante’s POV

The studio lights were bright, almost harsh, but I didn’t notice them. I barely noticed anything beyond her.

Camila stepped onto the set, red dress flowing around her, catching the light in a way that made everything else fade to the background. I couldn’t look away.

The dress hugged her in all the right places, the fabric clinging to curves that were both understated and impossible to ignore. A slit ran from the bottom all the way up to her upper thigh, leaving a sliver of skin exposed with every step she took. She moved carefully, deliberately, her posture perfect, yet there was a natural ease to her that made her seem… untouchable and human all at once.

I felt tension coil in my chest, tight and unfamiliar. It wasn’t just the dress, or the way she carried herself—it was her. Grounded. Practical. Beautiful. Fierce in a quiet, controlled way that challenged me without speaking.

The photographer called out instructions, and I followed along, stepping close as needed for the “poses.” Officially, for the cameras, for the public. But unofficially, I couldn’t stop noticing her.

The way her chocolate-colored eyes met mine briefly, assessing me as carefully as I assessed her. The subtle tilt of her head. The slight flex of her wrist where her bracelet glinted. Every detail was deliberate, measured—but still, somehow, she was alive in a way that made my control over this world feel… insufficient.

When she adjusted herself to follow a direction, the slit in her dress shifted, and I couldn’t help but note the exposed skin. Just a glimpse. Nothing more. And yet, it sent a small spark of awareness through me, the kind that made me realize how little distance remained between attraction and distraction.

I could feel the tension in the air, not just from the photoshoot itself, but from her. From the way she carried herself like she belonged here yet refused to let the space intimidate her. Like she was daring me to notice her without giving me a foothold.

Every step she took toward the photographer, every shift of her hips, every subtle expression, felt like a challenge. And I accepted it without hesitation.

When she glanced at me briefly—just a flicker of acknowledgment—I noted it, catalogued it. She was not a woman to be ignored. Not a woman to be caged. Not one to follow the rules I expected her to.

And that, more than any public display or staged pose, made the room feel electric.

I leaned slightly closer as instructed by the photographer, hand lightly brushing the small of her back, professionally required, entirely intentional. The movement was subtle, but I felt the tension snap in the space between us. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t step away. She simply held herself, poised and grounded, like fire wrapped in silk.

I caught her eyes again. There was curiosity there. Awareness. Challenge. And for the first time, I realized that the danger I expected from this arrangement wasn’t coming from her family, or the headlines, or even the media.

It was coming from her.

Camila’s POV

The last camera clicked, and the studio lights dimmed. A low murmur of assistants and stylists replaced the rigid focus from before, but my chest still felt tight, my pulse like a quiet drum in my ears.

Dante stood beside me, silent. He didn’t glance at anyone else, didn’t speak to the staff. His dark eyes were on me—calm, measured, and impossible to ignore.

I shifted slightly, trying to reclaim some composure, telling myself this was just a photoshoot. Public faces, staged smiles. But the weight of his gaze made my body betray me—heart racing, awareness sharpening in ways I couldn’t control.

“You handled that well,” he said finally, voice low, even, almost neutral—but with something behind it I couldn’t name.

I swallowed. “I’m used to people watching.”

He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing my words. “Not like that,” he said. “Not like you just did. Calm, precise… controlled. Even under all that attention.”

Heat flickered across my skin. I looked away, forcing my posture into something neutral, professional. But I felt it—the tension coiled between us, quiet and taut, like a wire strung too tight.

We moved toward the exit. I noticed the subtle shifts in him—the way he stepped, the barely-there brush of his hand near mine when we walked in close quarters, the small exhale he didn’t bother hiding when I turned slightly to follow directions.

“Camila,” he said once we reached the waiting cars. His voice was softer now, almost careful. “We should… exchange numbers. Just in case.”

I froze for a heartbeat, then met his gaze. No teasing, no jokes—just direct, impossible focus. I typed my number into his phone, passing it back.

“Done,” I said simply, my pulse still threatening to betray me.

He accepted the phone, and for a moment we stood there, just looking at each other. The tension hadn’t eased; if anything, it had thickened. Something unspoken lingered in the space between us—attention, awareness, curiosity, perhaps even the faintest edge of challenge.

“You won’t regret it,” he said quietly, almost under his breath.

I blinked, trying to read him, to understand what he meant. I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The message was not for conversation—it was a declaration.

Outside, the city lights glimmered in the distance, oblivious to the quiet storm building between us. I slid into my car, heart still caught somewhere between adrenaline and apprehension.

Dante watched until the door closed, then gave a brief, controlled nod before stepping into his own vehicle.

I exhaled slowly, leaning back and glanced at Eva. She gave me a silent teasing smirk but didn’t say a word.

I rested my hands on my lap, the red fabric of my dress warm against my skin, my pulse slowly returning to normal.

There was something about him. Something dangerous. Magnetic. And completely beyond my control.

Even as I tried to focus on the ride home with Eva, a small, irrational part of me wondered…

When would I see him again?