Chapter 5

Elena's POV

Victor sat frozen at the head of the long table, his face as pale as fresh paper. He stared down at the stack of stamped financial reports Dante had tossed in front of him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He tried to speak, tried to gather what was left of his pride, but no words came out.

The two senior board members beside him wouldn't even look up from the floor. They had already hidden Dante’s white envelopes deep inside their suit pockets, terrified of what those tax records would do to their lives if anyone else saw them.

Slowly, Victor pushed back his chair. He didn't say a word to the room. He couldn't even look Dante in the eye as he practically ran toward the heavy glass doors, his hands shaking as he pulled them open and practically fled into the hall. The remaining board members quickly gathered their papers, muttering rushed excuses before leaving one by one until the room was empty.

I sat completely still in my leather chair, keeping my face smooth and unreadable. On the surface, I looked like a CEO who had just calmly put down a messy rebellion. But under the polished wood table, my hands were shaking violently.

It wasn't because of Victor. I had known for weeks that my uncle was a snake. It was because of the man standing right behind my shoulder.

Dante had dismantled my uncle's entire plan in less than two minutes. He had brought down men with decades of power and political connections without ever raising his voice. It was a terrifying level of efficiency—the kind of dangerous precision that shouldn't belong to a man who was supposed to be a quiet, disgraced outcast.

"Clear my schedule for the rest of the morning, Clara," I said into the room's intercom, my voice remaining perfectly steady.

"Yes, Miss Rostova," her voice came back.

I stood up, smoothed down the front of my navy suit jacket, and looked at Dante. He was standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, casually adjusting his dark tie as if he had just finished a routine business chat rather than an execution.

"In my office. Now," I said.

The moment the heavy mahogany door of my executive suite clicked shut, I turned the lock.

The click sounded sharp in the grand room. Dante didn't seem bothered at all. He walked past my oversized desk and headed straight for the crystal decanter resting on the side table. He poured two fingers of dark amber whiskey into a short glass, the ice clinking softly as he picked it up.

"Where did you get those papers, Dante?" I demanded, my voice cutting through the space between us.

He took a slow sip, his dark eyes meeting mine over the rim of the glass. "I told you. From a private federal firm."

"Do not lie to me," I snapped, taking three sharp steps toward him. "My legal team is the most expensive firm in the city, and they have been searching for Victor's offshore accounts for six months with zero results. You found his exact Panama shell companies in less than twenty-four hours. And those tax disclosures for the board members—that is classified information. You didn't just run an audit. You used black-market leverage."

Dante set his glass down on the tray with a soft click. He didn't look guilty. He didn't look nervous. He just looked at me with that calm, unbothered expression that was quickly driving me crazy.

"You're welcome, by the way," he said softly.

"We have a contract!" I stepped closer, my pulse hammering in my throat as the anger I had been holding in all morning finally boiled over. "You were hired to be a quiet public escort. An accessory. You were paid to sit by my side, look sharp for the press, and keep your mouth shut. You were not hired to run my company, meddle in board affairs, or play vigilante!"

Dante didn't answer right away. He just watched me, his gaze scanning my face, taking in my flushed cheeks and the sharp edge of my voice.

Then, he took a step forward.

I stood my ground, refusing to look weak. But Dante took another step, his tall frame blocking out the light from the large windows behind him. The sudden shift in his energy was immediate and heavy. The quiet, passive husband was gone, replaced by something dark, powerful, and completely overwhelming.

He kept stepping toward me until my back hit the hard edge of my mahogany desk. There was nowhere left for me to move.

Dante stopped mere inches away. He leaned down slightly, resting his hands on the edge of the desk on either side of my hips, trapping me inside his space. The faint smell of cedar, rain, and whiskey rolled off him, wrapping around my senses like a net.

"Let's get one thing straight, Elena," he murmured, his deep voice dropping to a dangerous register that vibrated right through my chest. "A trophy husband who lets his wife get thrown to the wolves by her own family looks weak. And I don't do weak."

My breath caught in my throat. I pressed my back against the desk, my hands gripping the edge behind me to keep from reaching out to push him away—or pull him closer.

"This is my war," I whispered, fighting to keep my voice cold despite the heat rising under my skin. "I don't need a savior."

"Don't you?" Dante asked softly, his eyes dropping down to my lips for a brief, agonizing second before rising back to meet my gaze. "Is that what's bothering you? Are you really angry that I saved your life's work today... or are you just terrified because you realize you actually need me?"

The space between us felt suffocatingly small. My heart was hammering so hard against my ribs I was sure he could hear it. His closeness was a physical weight, pressing against every defense I had built over the last three years. I wanted to tell him that men were disposable. I wanted to tell him that he was just a tool I bought with a check.

But as his dark eyes locked onto mine, the words died in my throat. The tension in the room was electric, pulling at me, tempting me to surrender to the strange, dangerous warmth of his protection.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sudden, frantic pounding at my office door shattered the moment like thin glass.

I flinched, pulling my gaze away from Dante as my face flushed red. Dante didn't rush. He slowly straightened up, stepping back just enough to give me room, though his watchful eyes never left my face.

I cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure as I smoothed down my suit jacket with cold fingers. "Who is it?"

"Miss Rostova, please open the door!" Clara's voice sounded panicked through the thick wood. "It's urgent!"

I stepped past Dante, my legs feeling slightly unsteady, and unlocked the heavy door. Clara stood in the doorway, her face completely drained of color. She was holding a flat, unmarked black envelope in her trembling hands.

"What is it, Clara?" I asked, my corporate shield snapping instantly back into place.

"A courier just left this at the front desk downstairs," Clara stammered, holding it out. "He said it was hand-delivered and marked for your eyes only. Miss Rostova... the courier was wearing an underground security badge."

My chest tightened with a sudden wave of dread. I took the black envelope from her hands and tore it open.

Inside was a single glossy photograph.

I pulled it out, and my blood ran cold. It was a high-resolution photo of Dante and me taken late last night—a shot of us entering the private garage of my glass penthouse. On the back of the photo, a message was typed in crude, stark lettering:

Nice fake marriage, Elena. Let's see how much your new husband is worth when we come to collect. - J

Daniel.

My ex-fiancé. The man who had treated me like a pawn, used my name to build his empire, and then vanished into the city's ruthless underground syndicate when his debts caught up to him. He was back, and he knew everything.

Panic flared in my chest, hot and sharp. My past was coming back to tear down everything I had built, and now Dante was caught right in the middle of it.

I turned around slowly, my fingers clutching the black envelope as I looked up at Dante. "It's Daniel," I whispered, the cold reality settling over me like ice. "He knows the marriage is a setup. He's coming after us."

I expected to see worry on Dante's face. I expected him to panic, or at least realize the massive danger he had just walked into by taking my contract.

Instead, Dante looked down at the typed note, and a cold, lethal smirk slowly spread across his face.

There was no fear in his eyes. There was no hesitation. His dark gaze lit up with a dangerous, hungry spark, looking almost pleased by the threat.

Sitting there in my high-rise office, watching him look at a scandalous  threat with absolute amusement, a chilling realization hit me.

My past had finally caught up to me. But the man I had hired as a simple trophy husband was born for this kind of war.