GLASS SMILES

By the time the city woke, Isabelle had already lived a lifetime.

New York looked unreal from the back seat of Dante’s car steel and glass rising into a pale morning sky, sharp and indifferent. The city hummed with life, unaware that she was riding into it like an offering wrapped in silk.

She stared out the window, fingers curled tightly in her lap. Mrs. Chen had dressed her with quiet efficiency: a charcoal-gray dress that hugged her waist and skimmed her knees, elegant and restrained. Power dressing. Dante’s choice, no doubt.

“You look appropriate,” he said beside her, eyes scanning her reflection in the tinted glass. “That’s important.”

Appropriate.

She didn’t answer.

His hand rested on her thigh, not possessive deliberate. A reminder. The warmth of it burned through the thin fabric.

“This is not a social event,” he continued calmly. “This is a test. Smile when I smile. Speak when spoken to. Do not improvise.”

“I’m not your employee.”

“No,” he agreed softly. “You’re more valuable than that.”

The car slowed.

Isabelle’s breath caught when she saw the building Marchetti International Tower, all black glass and clean lines, rising like a blade among the skyline. Cameras flashed already. Reporters clustered behind barricades.

Her pulse spiked.

“So this is how you plan to introduce me,” she said. “As proof of life?”

“As proof of stability,” Dante corrected. “They need to see you. Alive, Calm, and Unafraid.”

She laughed once, sharp. “You really don’t ask for much.”

His fingers tightened briefly. “I ask for survival.”

The door opened.

Noise rushed in,voices, shutters, the roar of curiosity. Dante stepped out first, straightening his jacket, already composed. He offered his hand.

The hesitation was a heartbeat too long.

He noticed.

“Isabelle,” he murmured without looking at her, “if you falter now, they’ll smell it.”

She placed her hand in his and fashbulbs exploded.

The moment she stepped beside him, something shifted. His posture changed, subtle, but unmistakable. Dante Marchetti the husband didn’t exist out here. This was Dante Marchetti the kingmaker, the predator.

He smiled for the cameras.

She mirrored it, lips trembling into place.

“Mr. Marchetti!” someone shouted. “Is this your wife?”

“Yes,” Dante said smoothly. “Isabelle Marchetti.”

Not Ashford.

The omission landed like a bruise.

They moved through the lobby, marble floors gleaming, security closing in around them. Isabelle felt eyes everywhere. Measuring. Weighing.

A woman brushed past too closely.

Isabelle stiffened.

Dante didn’t miss it.

“Easy,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”

The lie sat heavy between them.

Inside the elevator, the doors slid shut with a soft finality. Silence wrapped around them, thick and suffocating.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“You’re watching me again.”

Her gaze snapped to his. “Does it ever stop?”

“No.”

The elevator dinged.

The conference floor was already full. Men in tailored suits. Women with sharp eyes and sharper smiles. Power hummed through the room like static.

Vincent Romano appeared at Dante’s side, greeting him warmly. “You made it.”

“Of course,” Dante replied. “I wouldn’t miss this.”

Vincent’s gaze flicked to Isabelle curious, assessing. Not unkind, but not gentle either.

“So,” Vincent said lightly, “this is the wife.”

Isabelle met his eyes. “It is.”

Something unreadable passed through his expression.

As the meeting began, Isabelle drifted to the side, glass of water untouched in her hand. She listened without hearing, mind racing. Words from the files echoed in her skull. Names, accounts and deaths disguised as accidents.

Her father’s handwriting.

Her stomach twisted.

Then she felt it.

That sensation again.

Being watched.

Not the cameras. Something else.

She scanned the room slowly.

Near the back, a man stood apart from the others. Mid-forties. Ordinary face. Expensive suit worn like a disguise. He wasn’t looking at Dante.

He was looking at her.

Their eyes met.

He smiled.

Not polite. Not curious.

Isabelle’s breath hitched.

The man lifted his glass in a subtle toast.

Then he turned and walked out.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She moved without thinking, slipping past the clusters of executives, following him into the hallway. The noise faded behind her.

The man was waiting by the windows.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” he said pleasantly, without turning around.

“Who are you?” Her voice shook despite her effort.

He finally faced her.

Up close, his eyes were cold. Empty.

“You look just like her,” he said. “Your mother, I mean. Before she learned to lie better.”

Ice flooded her veins.

“What do you want?”

“To warn you.” He leaned closer. “Your husband is very good at building cages. But cages attract hunters.”

Her phone vibrated in her hand.

A message lit the screen.

DANTE: Where are you?

The man glanced at it and smiled wider. “Tell him they’ve already crossed the perimeter.”

Before she could react, he pressed something into her palm.

A small black USB drive.

“Consider this a courtesy,” he said softly. “You’re running out of time, Isabelle Marchetti.”

Then he walked away, disappearing into the elevator just as Dante rounded the corner.

His eyes went instantly to her face. Her clenched fist.

“What happened?” he demanded.

She opened her hand.

The USB sat there, innocent and damning.

Dante’s expression changed.

For the first time since she’d met him

He looked afraid.

“Get us out of here,” he said sharply into his earpiece.

The lights flickered.

Somewhere deep in the building, an alarm

began to scream.

And Isabelle realized the war hadn’t been waiting outside the walls.

It had already followed her inside.