Chiara
“There,” the stylist breathed, stepping back like she had just completed a masterpiece. “Perfect.”
Perfect?
I didn’t feel perfect.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. The black silk gown clung to me like it had been made just for me. The back? Scandalously backless. The fabric dipped low enough to make my pulse spike just looking at it.
My hair fell in soft waves over one shoulder, exposing the entire curve of my back. My makeup was flawless—smoky eyes, nude lips, sharp cheekbones.
I looked sleek and elegant—like I belonged in Domenico’s world. I was beginning to get used to life like this.
The room buzzed softly as assistants packed up palettes and garment bags.
“Your pre-summit look is everywhere,” the makeup artist said excitedly, grinning at her phone. “The post is
