Lukyan’s in a good mood, riding the high of another deal inked and laundered. He gestures toward the dance floor, where women in scraps of fabric swirl around men who think money can buy invincibility.
“You see that one?” he says, nudging my arm. “Red dress, dark hair. She’s been watching you since we walked in. Think she’s into you?”
Dimitri grins, and for a second the world feels younger. I force a smirk, but it’s an old reflex. None of it reaches my eyes. I’m not here for games tonight, not here for the laughter or the women who think they know what men like me want.
Then I see her.
At first it’s just a flicker of chestnut hair catching blue light, a flash of white teeth as she throws her head back and laughs. She stands near the edge of the dance floor, one hand on her friend’s shoulder, body swaying with the music. Her dress hugs her waist, soft fabric clinging to every curve, legs bare and gleaming in the shifting lights.
It’s Isabella Rossi.
The same woman who walked me through paintings and feigned indifference to my name. Only this time, she’s unguarded now, no clipboard, no mask of professionalism, nothing but the raw, easy joy of being unknown in a crowd. Her hair tumbles loose down her back, catching every stray ray of light. There’s nothing careful about her tonight. Nothing cold or unreachable. She is warmth, movement, the impossible promise of something real in a world built on lies.
For a second, I forget to breathe. It’s like seeing a wild animal stumble into a hunting lodge—out of place, yet commanding all the attention in the room.
She laughs again, tipping her glass back, and even from across the distance I know every man nearby is watching. Some look away, wary.
Others linger, drawn in, hoping she’ll notice them. They have no idea who she is. No idea what kind of men watch from the shadows.
Lukyan follows my gaze, smirk widening. “Ah. That’s the look. Which one’s got you by the balls?”
I ignore him, eyes fixed on Isabella. She doesn’t see me yet, doesn’t know the kind of place she’s wandered into, or maybe she does and doesn’t care. Her friend leans in, whispering something in her ear, and Isabella throws her head back and laughs again. Her throat is bare, skin glowing gold under the lights, shoulders soft and inviting.
She doesn’t belong here. That much is obvious. She’s too bright, too alive, for this den of wolves. The contrast only makes her harder to look away from. I remember the tension in her voice at the gallery, the way she tried to pry secrets from me without breaking her smile. Tonight, all that calculation is gone. In its place, something real. Something rare.
Lukyan elbows me again, voice low. “Go. If you don’t, someone else will.”
Dimitri raises his glass, but says nothing. He’s seen this before, my attention caught and held by something unexpected, something dangerous. I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on the conversation, but it’s useless.
The club, the business, the talk of shipments and deals—all of it fades to static as I watch her move.
For a moment, I wonder if she came here on purpose. If she’s searching for answers, or just trying to escape the weight of her own world. Maybe it doesn’t matter. All I know is I want to see her up close, want to hear her laugh again without the gallery walls between us.
She turns, eyes scanning the crowd, and I’m caught by the memory of the way she looked at me before: defiant, uncertain,hungry for something she couldn’t name. Our eyes don’t meet. Not yet.
I know it’s only a matter of time.
The music pounds, drowning out everything else. In this moment, nothing matters but the woman across the room—Isabella Rossi, impossibly out of place, impossibly captivating. The game has changed, and I realize, with a kind of grim amusement, that I’ve just found the only thing in this city I might be willing to risk everything for.
“Seems like she’s caught your attention,” Dimitri drawls, grinning over the rim of his drink. Lukyan leans forward to follow my gaze, then lets out a low whistle. “Pretty little thing,” he says, voice pitched for my ears alone. “Not your usual, though. Looks like she belongs somewhere soft.”
I don’t bother to answer. My jaw tenses; I can feel the muscle working, a pulse ticking just beneath my skin. Their banter is background noise now.
The club could burn down around me and I’d still be fixed on her; Isabella Rossi, glowing under the dance floor lights, shoulders squared, smile half guarded even in her joy. She moves with a kind of self-possession you don’t often see in places like this. Not arrogant. Just sure of her own edges. Even in a crowd of hungry men, she seems untouchable.
She’s laughing at something her friend says, head tilted, hair falling over one eye. there’s a distance in her, something in the way her gaze flits past the other dancers, never settling for long, as if she’s measuring escape routes instead of opportunities. I watch the way she keeps her body just far enough away from the tide of the crowd, turning, shifting, never quite letting herself be swept in.
I don’t approach her. Not yet. Some instinct keeps me rooted in the booth, shadowed and silent. Instead, I memorize her without meaning to. The way her fingers curl around her glass, her nails painted a soft, unremarkable color. The faint shimmer of sweat on her collarbone where the light hits just right. I want to trace the line of her throat, press my mouth to the place where her pulse flutters.
A man—tall, slick hair, probably too much cologne—slides up beside her on the dance floor. I see him lean in, mouth something into her ear. My fingers tighten around my glass. The sensation is sharp, sudden, foreign.
I know it’s irrational. I don’t know her, not really. Not beyond a handful of charged conversations, a name, a shadow cast between two worlds. Even so, the sight of another man touching her, even briefly, makes something hard and primitive flare in my chest.
She doesn’t make a scene. I see the practiced way she turns, smile polite but final, one hand raised in gentle refusal. She steps back, slipping out of the man’s reach, her posture soft but unyielding. He tries again, emboldened by the alcohol and the false privacy of darkness, but she shuts him down with a shake of her head and a firm, practiced flicker of her eyes toward her friend.
The man shrugs, gives up, melting back into the swarm of bodies. My grip on the glass relaxes, just barely.
Dimitri notices and snorts. “Relax. Not like you to get jealous over a pretty face.”
