The final notes of the string quartet echoed faintly across the marble floor as Dante's hand lingered at Anastasia's waist, guiding her in a slow, deliberate rhythm that stole the breath of everyone watching. It was a dance carefully choreographed—not by music, but by manipulation. His eyes held hers like a promise, his fingers curved possessively around her waist, and the world around them blurred into meaningless silhouettes.
But the moment the last note died, so did the illusion.
Without a word, Dante slipped his hand from her back, his expression unreadable. He leaned toward her, lips close to her ear. "We're leaving. Now."
Before Anastasia could respond, he clasped her hand again—not with warmth, but with purpose—and pulled her through the crowd with calculated ease. They exited through the back corridor, avoiding the ever-hungry eyes of the paparazzi. The silence that fell between them in the narrow hallway was loud—thick with tension and bruised egos.
