Chapter 1: The Invitation That Burns

Chapter 1: The Invitation That Burns

Bella’s POV

The rain is relentless tonight, drumming against the tinted windows of the Eclipse Tower like it wants inside. Fifty floors above Manhattan, the city is a smeared jewel box—neon bleeding into wet black asphalt, limousines crawling like insects far below. I shouldn’t be here. I should be in my Brooklyn walk-up, lights off, pretending the past three years actually erased him.

But the black envelope arrived two nights ago. No stamp. No return address. Just silver lettering on heavy cardstock slipped under my door like a threat wrapped in silk:

Victor Kane requests the pleasure of your company.

Pleasure. The word still tastes like poison and honey on my tongue.

I chose the emerald dress on purpose. Satin so thin it clings like a second skin, neckline plunging low enough to make a man forget his manners, slit riding high on my left thigh. No bra. No panties. Every step reminds me I’m bare underneath—vulnerable, reckless, armed only with spite and leftover desire. I wanted him to see what he threw away. I wanted him to choke on it.

The gala is in full decadent swing: crystal chandeliers throwing diamonds across marble, string quartet bleeding into low bass from hidden speakers, champagne flutes catching firelight. Politicians, hedge-fund kings, models who look carved from ice. I feel their eyes slide over me—curious, hungry, dismissive. I don’t care. I’m not here for them.

A large, warm hand settles on the small of my back without warning.

“Principessa,” Nico murmurs, voice low enough that only I hear the gravel in it. “You’re shaking.”

I don’t turn. I don’t have to. I know the shape of him by heart: six-three of lean, coiled muscle, tailored black suit doing nothing to hide the danger underneath. Tattoos crawl up his neck from beneath his crisp white collar—black ink I’ve traced with my fingertips on drunken summer nights when we pretended the lines between us weren’t blurring. His scent hits me next: leather, gun oil, faint smoke, and that dark, masculine warmth that’s always felt like home and sin at the same time.

“You didn’t have to come,” I say, even though relief floods me the second his thumb strokes a slow circle against my spine.

“Like hell I didn’t.” His fingers flex, possessive without apology. “You think I’d let you walk into his den alone?”

Before I can answer, the crowd fractures.

Victor Kane moves through the room like he owns the oxygen in it. Because he does. Thirty-seven now, sharper than memory, black tuxedo cut to kill, white shirt open at the throat just enough to show the edge of the raven tattoo that curls over his left collarbone—the one I used to kiss when he was still soft with me. Dark hair swept back, storm-gray eyes locked on mine. He doesn’t smile. He never did when he was hunting.

My heart slams so hard I taste copper.

He stops a breath away. Close enough that I feel the heat rolling off him, close enough to smell cedar and smoke and that dark, addictive undertone that used to make my knees buckle.

“Bella.” His voice is velvet dragged over broken glass. “You wore green.”

The observation lands like a brand. He remembers. Green was always his favorite on me—said it made my skin look edible.

“You invited me,” I reply, forcing my voice steady. “I came dressed to remind you what you lost.”

His gaze drops—slow, deliberate. Lips. Throat. The swell of my breasts straining against satin. The bare skin of my thigh framed by the slit. Lower still, as if he can see right through the fabric to the fact that I’m already wet just from the way he’s looking at me.

Nico’s hand slides from my back to my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. A clear claim.

Victor’s eyes flick to the touch. Something lethal flashes across his face—possession, jealousy, promise of violence.

“Moretti,” he says coolly. “Still playing knight?”

Nico’s smile is all teeth. “Still playing god, Kane?”

The air crackles. I feel every nearby conversation stutter, heads turning.

I step forward, putting my body between them. “Five minutes,” I tell Victor. “That’s all you get.”

Nico growls low in his throat. “Bella—”

“I’ll be fine.” I meet his eyes—dark, stormy, burning with everything he’s never said out loud. “Stay close.”

Victor doesn’t wait for permission. He turns and strides toward the private corridor. I follow, heels clicking like gunshots on marble.

The suite is darker than the main hall—black walls, low amber lighting, a single wall of glass overlooking the storm. He shuts the door. The lock clicks with finality.

Silence stretches, thick and electric.

Then he’s on me.

Not touching—yet. Just crowding me back until my spine hits cold glass. Rain streaks behind me like tears I refuse to shed.

“You’ve been hiding,” he says quietly. Dangerous.

“I’ve been living.” My voice cracks despite myself. “You made sure I couldn’t do both with you.”

His hand lifts. Fingers trace my jaw, then slide down—over my racing pulse, along the edge of the plunging neckline. He hooks one finger under the satin and tugs it aside just enough to bare the upper curve of my breast. My nipple pebbles instantly in the cool air.

“I let you go to keep you alive,” he murmurs. “My enemies would have used you to hurt me. You were my only weakness.”

“So you made me nothing.” Tears burn. I hate them. “You walked out like I was trash.”

“You were everything.” His thumb brushes my nipple—slow, deliberate circles. I bite my lip to trap the moan. “That’s why I couldn’t keep you.”

He presses closer. Thigh sliding between mine, forcing them apart. The hard ridge of him presses against my belly through his trousers. Thick. Ready.

“I think about you every fucking night,” he confesses, voice rough. “You spread on my desk. On your knees. On your back with my name in your throat while I fucked you until you couldn’t walk.”

Heat surges through me—shameful, liquid, unstoppable. My hips rock forward instinctively, seeking friction.

His hand drops lower. Slips through the slit of the dress. Fingers find bare thigh, then higher. When he discovers I’m completely bare underneath, a guttural sound rips from his chest.

“Jesus, Bella.” Two fingers glide along my slick folds—slow, teasing. “So fucking wet already. Still dripping for the man who broke you.”

I gasp as he circles my clit—light, maddening. My head falls back against the glass.

“You hate me,” I breathe.

“I do.” He sinks one finger inside me—slow, deep. Then another. Curling. “And I’d kill for the chance to ruin you again.”

His mouth crashes to mine—brutal, claiming. Tongue invading. Teeth nipping until I taste blood. I bite back harder. He groans into my mouth like it’s foreplay.

Fingers pump—steady, relentless. Thumb on my clit. I’m trembling, thighs shaking, so close—

The door slams open.

Nico stands there—coat dripping rain, eyes black with fury, fists clenched so tight the knuckles are white.

“Get your fucking hands off her.”

Victor doesn’t withdraw immediately. He strokes once more—deep, possessive—then slowly pulls out. Brings glistening fingers to his lips. Licks them clean while staring Nico down.

“Jealous, Moretti?” Victor’s voice is silk over razor. “You’ve had three years. Never took what’s been yours all along.”

Nico crosses the room in three strides. Cups my face with shaking hands—gentle, reverent. Thumbs wipe my swollen lips.

“You don’t have to do this,” he whispers. “Not with him. Not ever again.”

But his gaze drops—to the wetness shining on my inner thighs, to the flush staining my chest, to the way my nipples strain against wet satin.

Dark hunger flares in his eyes. Possession. Need. Violence.

I look between them:

Victor—ice-cold billionaire who once owned every inch of me and now wants it back.

Nico—my beautiful, lethal best friend who’s loved me in silence and is finally done hiding it.

Both monsters.

Both obsessed.

Both ready to tear the world apart for me.

And God help me…

I want them to.