THE PRICE PF CURIOSITY

The rain hadn’t stopped all night. By morning the glass walls of the Moretti tower were veiled in silver, the city below a blurred watercolor of motion. Isabella barely slept. The image in the black envelope haunted her: her father’s handshake with a stranger, the words You’re targeting the wrong enemy carved into her thoughts.

She arrived at work early, coffee in hand, pulse thrumming with purpose. The elevator ride to the top floor felt longer than usual, every second marked by the echo of her own breathing. She’d come here to dismantle Damian Moretti’s empire from within—but if someone else had forged those contracts, then her plan had just been rewritten.

The office greeted her in silence. Only the soft hum of electronics and the smell of cedar remained. Damian’s door was open, and his voice drifted out, low and measured, speaking in Italian to someone on the phone. The words were fluid, commanding, intimate in a way that made her skin tighten. When he hung up, he looked up at her as if he’d known she’d been listening.

“Curiosity,” he said, “is either a gift or a curse, depending on how you use it.”

“I thought it was a requirement for problem-solvers,” she replied lightly, stepping into his office.

His gaze lingered on her coat, her gloves, the damp strands of hair curling near her cheek. “And what problem are you solving this morning, Miss Voss?”

“The same one you hired me for—keeping you untouchable.”

She set the folder on his desk. “But I’ll need unrestricted access to your legacy accounts. The missing millions aren’t random leaks; they’re deliberate diversions.”

He studied her for a beat too long. “You’re implying an internal betrayal.”

“I’m stating it.”

Damian rose, walked to the window. His reflection glinted beside hers in the glass. “You understand what that means? If you’re wrong, it’s your reputation. If you’re right…” He turned. “Someone in this building wants me ruined.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in fear,” she said, echoing his words from before.

He almost smiled. “I don’t. But I do believe in strategy.”

By noon, Isabella was deep in encrypted data trails. Names, offshore accounts, coded transfers. A pattern began to emerge—small, precise withdrawals routed through shell corporations. The signature authorizing them wasn’t Damian’s. It was someone using his personal cipher.

She froze when she saw the identity tag: V.M.

Valentina Moretti.

Damian’s sister. His most trusted ally.

Isabella’s stomach twisted. Could Valentina be the one behind her father’s ruin? The photograph, the forged contract—it fit too neatly. But how could she prove it without revealing her own agenda?

That evening, Damian found her still working. He didn’t knock. “You’ve been here since dawn.”

“Productivity is my vice.”

“Then I should warn you—it’s one of mine too.”

He came closer, leaning over her chair to scan the data on her screen. His scent—smoke, citrus, power—brushed against her senses. The tension between them had changed; it wasn’t the sharp hostility of their first meeting but something heavier, magnetic.

“What are you hiding, Isabella?” His voice softened, dangerous. “You dig like a woman with something to lose.”

“Maybe I just hate unsolved puzzles.”

He leaned nearer until his breath touched the curve of her neck. “Or maybe you came here looking for answers that have nothing to do with my company.”

She turned in her chair, meeting his gaze head-on. “Careful, Mr. Moretti. When you stare too long into someone else’s secrets, you might find your own reflected back.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—respect or suspicion, she couldn’t tell. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed, the sound rich and low. “You’re either going to save me, Miss Voss, or destroy me.”

“Maybe both.”

Later, she stood on the rooftop terrace, wind whipping through her hair. Below, the city pulsed with neon life. She thought of her father, of justice, of the stranger in the photograph. The envelope hadn’t been left by accident. Someone wanted her to chase the truth—and she would.

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:

Stop digging into Valentina. She isn’t your enemy. But she knows who is.

If you want proof—come alone to the Moretti Gala tomorrow night.

Isabella’s heart lurched. The Gala—the annual charity event that gathered the world’s elite, hosted by Damian himself. A perfect setting for glamour, power… and betrayal.

She typed back, Who are you?

No reply.

The following night, the ballroom of the Palazzo Verona glittered under chandeliers. Gold, glass, champagne, and secrets. Isabella descended the marble staircase in a gown of midnight silk, every step measured, every glance calculated. Eyes followed her. Whispers spread. She didn’t care.

Across the room, Damian stood like the center of gravity—black tuxedo, confident stillness, an aura that drew attention without effort. When he saw her, his expression shifted: curiosity first, then something far more dangerous.

“You clean up well,” he murmured when she joined him. “Though I suspect your intentions are anything but innocent.”

“Would you believe I came for the music?”

“No.” He offered his arm. “Dance with me.”

The orchestra swelled. They moved together through the rhythm—her body attuned to his, every movement deliberate restraint. Around them, cameras flashed, alliances were whispered. To the world, they looked like a perfect power couple. To Isabella, it felt like standing at the edge of a blade.

When the song ended, Damian leaned close. “Someone’s been asking questions about you. A man. Calls himself Elias Kane.”

Her pulse faltered. Elias. Her old ally—the one who’d promised to help expose Damian.

“He’s no one important,” she said quickly.

“I’ll decide that.” His hand tightened at her waist. “Be careful who you trust.”

Midnight. The gala wound down. Isabella slipped away to the lower hallway where the staff elevators stood—her contact had instructed her to come alone. She found an envelope tucked behind a vase, identical to the first.

Inside: another photograph. This time it showed Valentina meeting Elias Kane in a private villa. On the back, a message:

Your father’s death wasn’t a business accident. Elias made it happen.

Her vision blurred. The air thinned.

Elias—her ally, her supposed savior—had been the one who orchestrated everything?

Behind her, a voice said softly, “You weren’t supposed to find that.”

She spun. Damian stood at the end of the corridor, expression unreadable.

“How long have you known?” she demanded.

“Long enough to know you’re not here by coincidence.” He stepped closer. “Tell me who you really are, Isabella.”

“I told you—”

He cut her off. “Don’t lie to me.” His tone was calm, lethal. “I’ve already traced your background. You’re the daughter of Victor Voss—the man who tried to frame my company three years ago.”

Her breath caught. “Frame your company? He was destroyed by you!”

“No,” Damian said quietly. “He was destroyed by someone who wanted us both ruined.”

Lightning flashed through the skylight, throwing shadows across his face. “Who sent you that message?” he asked.

She hesitated. “If I tell you, you won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

She opened her palm, showing him the photograph. “Elias Kane.”

For the first time, Damian’s composure fractured. “Kane?” he said, almost to himself. “He’s not just a rival—he’s my sister’s fiancé.”

The air between them stilled.

All the glitter, the champagne, the music above—the entire world seemed to pause on that revelation.

Isabella stared. “Valentina’s engaged to him?”

Damian nodded slowly. “And if he’s behind your father’s death… then this engagement isn’t love.” His gaze lifted to hers. “It’s strategy.”

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky. Inside, two adversaries stood on the edge of something neither had planned for—truth, danger, and a desire neither could afford.

“Then we’re on the same side now,” Isabella whispered.

“Are we?” Damian’s eyes darkened. “Because in my world, alliances are temporary.”

He turned away, leaving her with the photograph trembling in her hand, the storm roaring beyond the windows.

And for the first time since stepping into his world, Isabella wondered if the real enemy wasn’t Damian Moretti… but the part of herself that was starting to need him.