The car Dante had sent was already waiting outside when Anastasia stepped out of the elevator. Sleek, black, and completely excessive, it reeked of him. She sighed, smoothing the creases of her blouse before climbing in. She hadn't wanted his help. But of course, Dante never asked—he simply made decisions and expected the world to fall in line. He walked to the parking lot, sliding into the one they came with before driving away .
The driver, dressed in a tailored suit, said nothing as he handed the keys to her . Anastasia slid in as the car glided through the streets toward the Dupont estate. Sitting behind the steering wheel, her thoughts a mess of the past few days: Her father's company nearly being snatched , the whirlwind of press about her and Dante's engagement, and tonight—the dreaded gala.
