The Games Begin

(Olivia’s POV)

The silk lining of my gown clung to my legs as I slid into the passenger seat of Armando’s Aston Martin. My fingers twitched in my lap, nervous energy I couldn’t quite hide. The soft hum of the engine filled the silence as Armando navigated the streets like they belonged to him—smooth, calculated, and always in control. We had a Gala to attend. First party to attend as a couple.

“Do you have to look so tense?” he asked, glancing at me briefly. His hand rested casually on the steering wheel, his cufflinks catching the light from passing streetlamps.

“I’m not tense,” I lied, smoothing my dress over my knees. I just didn’t know how to hide my tension.

“You’re practically fidgeting,” he countered. “It’s a gala, not a battlefield.”

“For you, maybe,” I muttered, turning to watch the city blur past the window. The truth was, my nerves had been shot ever since the attack. I could still feel the cold blade of the knife from that parking lot, hear Armando’s sharp command as he brought the assailant down.

The idea of stepping into a room full of his “allies” made my stomach twist. I wasn’t naïve enough to think this world was all handshakes and business cards. These people played games, and the stakes were life and death. It was more like trying to cheat death everyday.

Armando sighed, reaching over to place a hand on mine. His touch was warm, grounding. “You’ll be fine, Olivia. You’ve faced worse than a room full of egos.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Because it is.” His eyes flicked to mine, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re with me. That’s all they need to know. I am Armando Moretti”

That might’ve been reassuring if I didn’t know how much they resented the woman on Armando Moretti’s arm. His fiancée. A title that felt more like armor than anything else.

The car rolled to a stop in front of a towering hotel, its golden-lit windows gleaming against the night sky. A valet rushed forward as Armando exited the car, moving with practiced ease to open my door.

I stepped out and felt the weight of the room pressing on me before I even entered it. The air was electric, charged with the promise of power plays and silent wars.

“Smile, amore.” Armando’s voice was low in my ear, his hand settling at the small of my back as we moved toward the entrance. “First impressions matter.” I guess it was time for me to put on my acting mask which would prolly win me the Oscars!

I plastered on a smile as we stepped into the ballroom, though my pulse thrummed like a trapped bird. The sheer scale of the room hit me first—high ceilings adorned with intricate carvings, chandeliers dripping with crystals, and a sea of immaculately dressed bodies swaying to the soft strains of a string quartet.

It was beautiful, in a way that made my skin crawl.

“Armando, my boy!” A booming voice interrupted my thoughts, and I turned to see a man in his sixties with a laugh too loud and eyes that calculated every move. “And this must be the lovely fiancée we’ve heard so much about.” It sounded weird hearing someone calling Armando his boy though

“Edgar Montenegro,” Armando said smoothly, steering me toward the man. “Olivia Pierce.”

Edgar’s hand was cold and dry when it wrapped around mine. He squeezed just hard enough to remind me of his strength.

“Charming, such a beauty!” Edgar said, his smile not reaching his eyes. I could see the sly lust in his eyes. “Tell me, Miss Pierce, how does it feel to be the future Mrs. Moretti?”

“Exciting,” I said lightly, though I knew my answer would be dissected later. “He keeps me on my toes.”

Edgar laughed, though the sound felt hollow. “I’m sure he does.”

It was after his response and the way he looked at Armando I realized the other meaning of my statement and it was sexual. Anyways I couldn’t take it back.

Armando shifted beside me, the tension radiating from him subtle but undeniable. “Edgar, if you’ll excuse us, we have a few more hands to shake.”

“Of course, of course,” Edgar said, stepping back with a smile that didn’t falter.

As we moved through the crowd, I caught snippets of conversation—deals disguised as pleasantries, threats masked as jokes. It was exhausting, like wading through quicksand with a target on my back.

Then I saw her.

She stood near the edge of the room, partially hidden by the shadows of a marble column. Her dress was a deep burgundy that seemed to absorb the light, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder like a curtain. She wasn’t mingling like the others. She was watching.

Me.

“Who’s that?” I asked Armando, nodding subtly in her direction.

He followed my gaze and stiffened almost imperceptibly. “No one important.”

I didn’t believe him for a second.

“Excuse me,” I said, stepping away before he could stop me.

The woman didn’t move as I approached. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile, and her eyes sparkled with something I couldn’t quite place.

“Olivia Pierce,” she said, her voice low and rich, like a secret whispered in the dark. “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

I stopped a few feet away, unsure whether her tone was friendly or mocking. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

“Isabella Santorini,” she said, extending a hand. “An old friend of Armando’s.”

The word friend carried a weight that settled uncomfortably in my chest. “Funny. He hasn’t mentioned you.” Armando told me she wasn’t anyone important.

Her smile widened, a slow, deliberate thing that made me feel like I’d walked into a trap. “Oh, Armando and I go way back. But you know how he is—so many secrets.”

The air between us felt thick, charged with something unspoken. “Is there something you want to tell me. You’ve been staring at me for a while?”

She stepped closer, the scent of jasmine and something sharper, bitter, filling the space between us. “Not here. But let’s just say… you should be careful where you step. Armando’s world is full of traps.”

Her words hung in the air as she brushed past me, her shoulder grazing mine just enough to feel like a warning.

When I turned back, Armando was already at my side, his jaw tight. “What did she say?”

“Nothing important,” I replied, mirroring his earlier words.

But as we rejoined the crowd, Isabella’s smile stayed with me, along with the nagging feeling that I was already in one of those traps she mentioned.