Elena wasn't afraid of parties. She was afraid of pretending.
And tonight, that was all she was expected to do.
The engagement celebration was already underway downstairs, spilling expensive champagne and suspicion in equal measure. The house had transformed overnight—floral arrangements climbed the railings, soft music spilled from hidden speakers, and guests dressed in silk and tailored suits glided through the halls like predators in masquerade.
She stood before the mirror, the black satin gown Rosa had laid out clinging to her figure like spilled ink. It was strapless, unforgiving, and made her feel less like a bride and more like a warning. The diamond necklace at her throat—it had belonged to Lucian's mother, Rosa had said—felt cold against her skin.
A knock came, soft but precise.
Elena turned. "Come in."
Lucian entered without hesitation.
He wore a suit the color of shadow, sharp enough to cut, and looked at her with an unreadable expression. "You're late."
"I'm not yours yet," she said, reaching for the lipstick on the vanity. "So technically, I don't have to be on your schedule."
"You're mine the moment you walk into that room wearing my name."
She applied the crimson shade in one clean stroke, then met his gaze in the mirror. "So this is what ownership looks like."
Lucian didn't answer. He walked to her, quiet and assured, and placed a small black box beside her hand.
"What's this?" she asked, not looking away.
"Your ring."
Her breath stilled.
She opened the box slowly. Inside sat a ring unlike anything she'd imagined. No solitaire sparkle. No romantic flourish. Just a band of dark platinum set with a single square-cut onyx stone.
It was beautiful in the way storms were beautiful.
"You picked this," she said.
"I don't believe in pretending."
"I noticed."
Lucian held out his hand.
Elena hesitated—only for a breath—then took it.
Their fingers locked, cool against warm, reluctant against unmoved.
The ballroom was already crowded, every surface polished, every corner watched. Crystal chandeliers bathed the room in soft gold, and servers floated through the crowd with trays of drinks that no one trusted and everyone drank anyway.
Heads turned when they entered.
She felt the weight of their stares like a physical thing—some curious, others skeptical, and a few sharp enough to draw blood.
"Elena Carter," someone murmured behind a glass of champagne. "The debt girl."
She didn't flinch.
Lucian's grip on her waist was light, possessive in the quiet way that said: She's mine. Think twice before speaking again.
"Smile," he said under his breath.
"I don't have a smile for this."
"Then fake one. Everyone else is."
A server approached. Lucian took two glasses and handed her one.
She didn't drink it.
He noticed.
"I didn't poison it," he said flatly.
She arched a brow. "Wouldn't be your style."
"No," he agreed, sipping his. "If I wanted you gone, you wouldn't see it coming."
Their eyes locked, and something dark passed between them.
Then she looked away. "Charming."
The first person to approach them was a man who looked like he belonged in a courtroom—or a casket. Early fifties, silver hair slicked back, lips stretched too tight when he smiled.
"Lucian," he said. "So this is her."
Lucian's tone cooled. "Elena, this is Don Massimo Bianco."
She had heard the name. Even in whispered warnings, it rang with weight.
Bianco took her hand, brushed his lips over her knuckles. "You're prettier than I expected."
"I aim to disappoint," she said sweetly.
Lucian said nothing, but she felt the smallest shift in his stance beside her.
Bianco chuckled. "She's got teeth."
"She's got rules," Elena replied. "And sharp edges."
"I see why you picked her," the Don said to Lucian. "You always did like a challenge."
Elena stiffened, but Lucian's grip on her waist tightened just slightly—a silent reminder. Not now. Not here.
"Enjoy the party," Lucian said coolly.
Bianco moved on, and Elena exhaled.
"Friend of yours?" she muttered.
"Enemy," Lucian said. "That's why he smiled."
Hours passed in a haze of faces, false pleasantries, and political subtext she hadn't yet learned to decode. Elena stood beside Lucian like a porcelain figure—pristine, uncracked—but inside, her thoughts twisted.
She could read enough to know every woman in the room looked at Lucian like he was the storm they'd risk drowning for. And every man looked at her like a problem he hadn't yet solved.
There was no love in this house. No warmth. Just power, calculated and cold.
She didn't belong here.
And yet—here she was.
"Elena," Lucian said, breaking into her thoughts.
She turned.
"I need to speak with someone. I'll be ten minutes. Stay inside. Don't talk to anyone."
She smiled thinly. "So… like a trophy?"
His eyes darkened. "Like someone with enemies."
He left before she could answer.
She moved through the fringes of the crowd, pretending to admire the art, the architecture, the nothingness of wealth. She needed air. But the gardens were off-limits.
Which made her wonder why the side hallway was unguarded.
She slipped down it.
The hallway curved toward a quieter wing of the estate. Dimly lit. No guests. No laughter.
Then—movement.
She stopped.
At the far end of the hall stood a man in a charcoal suit, face partially obscured by shadow.
Not one of the guests. Not security.
He was watching her.
She took a step back.
He took one forward.
"Elena," he said—softly, like he already knew her.
Her blood went cold. "Who are you?"
But he didn't answer. Just smiled.
Something about it was wrong.
She turned—
And ran straight into Lucian.
His hand gripped her arm instantly. "What the hell are you doing?"
"There was someone—"
He looked past her. The hallway was empty.
"Don't lie to me," he said, voice low.
"I'm not."
Lucian's eyes scanned her face, then the corridor again. His grip tightened.
"We're leaving."
"But the party—"
"I said we're leaving."
In the car, silence stretched thick as rope.
Lucian's jaw was clenched, his body wound tight like a trigger. She'd seen him in control. This wasn't that. This was something colder. More lethal.
"What did you see?"
"I told you. A man. He knew my name."
"And what did he say?"
"Nothing that made sense."
Lucian didn't speak for a while.
Then: "Next time, when I say stay inside, stay inside."
"You don't own my choices."
He turned, slow and deliberate. "But I own the consequences."
They didn't speak again until they reached the estate.
Back inside her room, Elena paced.
She wasn't imagining it. That man had been there. Watching. Waiting.
And Lucian hadn't been surprised—just angry.
She turned to the window, staring down at the garden below. The same one from the other night. Moonlight poured over the hedges, softening the angles.
But something still moved in the shadows.
She closed the curtains.
There were eyes in this house. And not all of them belonged to Lucian.