“È lei?”
“Luna Valentine…?”
“Con Moretti? Dio mio.”
Dante’s hand settles at the small of my back, guiding me up the steps.
Inside, the palazzo is a flood of light and sound. A string quartet plays something expensive‑sounding near a massive staircase. Waiters move through the crowd with trays of champagne. Art glows on the walls—modern, abstract, the kind you’re not sure is expensive until someone tells you how much it cost.
We’re announced—*Signor e Signora Moretti*—and for a moment, all the noise seems to dip.
Dozens of heads turn.
The weight of their gaze hits like a spotlight.
I’ve done this before: the entrance, the eyes, the silent assessment. On red carpets, on award stages. I should be used to it.
It feels different with his hand on my back.
“Breathe,” he murmurs again
