Novels by Alexandria

SELENE'S POV The ballroom looked different when I walked back in on Don Mario’s arm. I could still see Amaya's face — the disbelief, the disgust, the hurt.I tried to breathe evenly, tried to move with the same grace they’d trained into me, but my chest was tight. Every step felt like a betrayal, and the weight of Mario’s hand on mine was heavier than any diamond he could drape across my skin.“Smile,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. “Don’t let them see your nerves.”I did. My lips curved on command, but it wasn’t mine. The smile belonged to him, just like everything else about me now seemed to.I sat where he guided me, at a table near the front where the most powerful men and women in the room gathered. Laughter rang around me, glasses clinked, business flowed as smoothly as the champagne. To them, I was an ornament — the mysterious woman on Don Mario’s arm, polished to perfection.But inside, I was hollow.All I could think about was Amaya storming out, her wrist s

“What are you doing with him?” I demanded, my voice sharp this time, slicing through the noise from the crowd.I saw her flinch. Just the smallest movement, but it was enough to confirm the fact that she was guilty.She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her hand still rested on my father’s arm, and the sight of it made bile rise in my throat.Gasps spread around us. Someone whispered too loudly, “That’s Don Mario’s daughter.”I didn’t care who heard. I didn’t care what it looked like. I only cared about the way her face had gone pale, how the woman I thought I knew had become a stranger in the blink of an eye.I moved before I even thought about it—cutting through the space between us, ignoring my father’s sharp look. My fingers wrapped around Selene’s wrist, and I pulled.She resisted at first, her lips parting as though to plead, but I wasn’t listening. Not here. Not in front of them.“Come with me,” I hissed, low enough that only she could hear. “Now.”Her eyes darted to my

AMAYA'S POV Being Don Mario’s daughter meant growing up with these types of invitations —galas, fundraisers, exclusive gatherings where power was both flaunted and traded—were nothing new to me. I’d been receiving invitations like this since I was a teenager, when I was too young to understand why strangers with famous names smiled at me as if I were already one of them. Back then, I hated it. I’d wanted to vanish into normalcy, to belong to a world that didn’t weigh so heavily on its own glitter. But this time was different. The invitation had sat on my dresser for weeks, untouched. I had almost decided not to go—until, at the very last minute, I booked a flight, packed the gowns I rarely wore, and told myself I was simply keeping a habit alive. It was easier to lie to myself than to admit the truth: I was restless, and I missed the thrill of the world I once swore off. The flight to Dubai was as smooth as silk, but my thoughts were rough. I thought of Selene a lot. The sile

I sat on the edge of the sofa, twisting the thin chain of my necklace between my fingers, staring at the closed door. A few hours to the event, I was expecting a team of stylists and make-up artists any moment from now to help get me ready. And just then, I heard a knock on the door.Three women stepped inside, with big smiles. One carried garment bags, another a tray of jewelry, the last a case of brushes and powders. They greeted me warmly.“Don Mario has requested that you be styled for tonight,” the oldest said, bowing her head slightly.They fanned the gowns across a rack, hangers clicking against metal. “Which do you prefer, Madam?” the younger one asked brightly.I stepped closer, letting my fingers graze the fabrics. They were soft, expensive and impossibly heavy.“None of them,” I whispered.The women exchanged glances at each other. Then the oldest one reminded that,“Don Mario asked that you be in either one of them. It is symbolic.”“Of what?” I asked“Of the occasion, Mi

I was still whispering to myself when Mario’s voice broke through the silence.“You’ll need to get used to it, Selene.”I turned, startled. He had loosened his tie, his presence filling the room in a way no furniture or chandelier ever could. For a second, I thought he might tease me for being overwhelmed. Instead, he came closer, his hand brushing the back of the sofa like he was deciding how much of the truth to give me.“You want to know why we’re here?” he asked simply.I swallowed, nodding.His gaze held mine. “Two nights from now, there will be an event. Not just another gala or dinner. A gathering of power. The kind of men and women who decide the direction of entire nations. Business magnates, royals, politicians, celebrities, you’ll see them all under one roof.”I blinked, the weight of his words pressing down on me. “And why did you bring me?”Mario’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Because I won't walk into that room alone. You’ll be at my side. It te

During the days before the trip, a different team of stylists arrived every morning at my apartment as if my body belonged to them, not me. They carried garment bags heavier than my entire college wardrobe, racks of gowns that whispered when they moved and shoes gleamed like museum pieces under dust covers.I told them, “I can dress myself.”They only smiled politely, as if I’d made a harmless joke, and went on pinning, measuring, brushing.Every time I tried to protest, someone would murmur, “It’s the Don’s instructions.”That sentence seemed to carry weight like a law.They spent the days prior to the trip preparing me outfit by outfit to look perfect beside Don Mario.When the morning of the trip came, there was a knock on the door. Two of his guards stood outside when I pulled it open, dressed in black, their expressions carved from stone.“Miss Selene,” one of them said, dipping his head slightly. “We’re here to escort you.”The words felt like a sentence. Escort me. Not ask,