Electricity in the Air

Cassandra stared at the photograph.

Dante and Isabella. Young. Smiling. In love.

Isabella was draped over him like she owned him—her arms wrapped around his neck, her lips pressed to his cheek, her eyes bright with possession. Dante was looking at her like she was the only person in the world. Like she was his entire universe.

Cassandra's stomach turned. Her hands trembled. She wanted to tear the photograph in half. She wanted to burn it. She wanted to pretend she'd never seen it.

But she couldn't.

She tucked the photograph into the drawer of her nightstand, her movements slow, deliberate. She closed the drawer. She took a breath. Then another. Then she turned and walked back to bed, where Dante was still sleeping, oblivious.

She lay down beside him, her body stiff, her mind racing. She didn't touch him. She didn't curl into him like she usually did. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to rise.

---

Dante woke up beside her.

His arm was draped across her waist, his breath warm against her neck. He stirred, pulling her closer, his lips finding her forehead.

"Good morning," he murmured.

"Good morning."

He noticed something off in her voice. Her body was stiff beneath his touch. She wasn't melting into him like she usually did.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing." She forced a smile. "Just tired."

He studied her face—the tightness around her eyes, the way she wouldn't quite meet his gaze. He didn't believe her. But he didn't push.

---

The mansion was buzzing with activity.

Staff members hurried through the hallways, carrying linens and silverware and floral arrangements. The smell of roasting meat drifted from the kitchen. Music played softly from the ballroom.

Cassandra found Jane in the hallway, directing a team of maids.

"What's happening?" Cassandra asked.

Jane turned, her expression apologetic. "Mr. Moretti is hosting a dinner tonight. A celebration. For the victory over Marcus Kane."

Cassandra's heart sank. She didn't want to celebrate. She didn't want to smile and pretend everything was fine. She wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a week.

But she nodded. "Thank you, Jane."

---

Dante found her in the bedroom, staring at the dress he'd left on the bed.

It was emerald green—deep, rich, elegant. The fabric shimmered in the light, catching the sun like water. It was the most beautiful dress she'd ever seen.

"For tonight," he said, stepping behind her. His hands found her waist, pulling her back against his chest. "You'll be the most beautiful woman in the room."

She tried to smile. "Thank you."

He turned her to face him. His eyes searched hers. "You don't have to come if you don't want to."

"I'll come."

"Cassandra—"

"I said I'll come."

He studied her for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Okay."

---

The dinner was grand.

The mansion was filled with important people—business associates, politicians, allies. Men in tailored suits. Women in designer gowns. Champagne flutes clinking. Laughter echoing off the marble floors.

Cassandra moved through the crowd, her hand in Dante's. She smiled when she was supposed to smile. She nodded when she was supposed to nod. She played the part of the happy fiancée.

But inside, she was crumbling.

Then she saw her.

Isabella.

Standing across the room, a glass of champagne in her hand. She was beautiful—blonde, sharp-featured, dressed in a red gown that clung to every curve. Her smile was cold and knowing.

Cassandra's blood ran cold.

Isabella approached her.

Her heels clicked against the marble, each step deliberate, measured. She moved through the crowd like a predator, her eyes fixed on Cassandra.

"Cassandra," she purred. "How lovely to see you."

"Isabella."

"I heard about your victory. Congratulations." She took a sip of her champagne, her eyes never leaving Cassandra's. "Though I must say, you look tired. The stress must be getting to you."

Cassandra didn't flinch. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" Isabella stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like a woman who's about to lose everything."

---

Dante appeared.

His hand found Cassandra's, his grip warm and steady. He glared at Isabella, his jaw tight.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was invited." Isabella smiled. "By your mother, actually. She and I have been... catching up."

Dante's jaw tightened. "Stay away from Cassandra."

"Or what?" Isabella laughed. "You'll hurt me? You never could."

---

The dinner continued.

Cassandra sat beside Dante, her food untouched. She couldn't eat. She couldn't breathe. Every time she looked up, she saw Isabella watching her.

Dante noticed. His hand found hers under the table, squeezing gently.

"Ignore her," he murmured. "She's nothing."

"She's not nothing." Cassandra's voice was quiet, hollow. "She's your past. And she's not going anywhere."

Dante's jaw tightened. "Cassandra—"

"Not now."

---

That night, Cassandra confronted him.

She stood by the window, her back to him, her arms wrapped around herself. Dante stood behind her, his hands in his pockets.

"Why didn't you tell me she was here?" Cassandra asked.

"She wasn't supposed to be. My mother invited her."

"Did you know?"

"No." He stepped closer. "But it doesn't matter. She's nothing to me."

"She's not nothing." Cassandra turned to face him. "She's your past. She's the woman you loved. She's the woman who betrayed you."

"I know." He reached for her. "But I don't love her. I love you."

She pulled away. "I need time."

"Cassandra—"

"I said I need time."

She walked out, leaving him alone in the dark.