Chapter 6b: The Masquerade Ball II

Elena’s throat tightened. “How did you—”

“Because men are idiots. Especially when they’re intimidated by a woman’s talent.” His voice turned hard. “And any man who would try to diminish you like that doesn’t deserve you.”

The certainty in his voice made Elena’s eyes sting. When was the last time someone had defended her? Believed in her?

“You don’t even know me,” she whispered.

“I know enough.” The song ended, but Dante didn’t let her go. “Dance with me again?”

They danced through three more songs. Four. Five. Elena lost count. They talked between dances, about art, about the city, about nothing and everything. Dante made her laugh, really laugh, for the first time in months.

He never asked about her life. Never pried. Just existed in the moment with her, like the outside world didn’t matter.

By the time they took a break, Elena’s feet hurt and her face ached from smiling.

“Champagne?” Dante asked, leading her to the bar.

“I probably shouldn’t…”

He ordered two glasses anyway. When he handed her one, their fingers brushed. Elena felt the contact like electricity.

“To beautiful artists,” Dante said, raising his glass. “Who deserve better than they’ve gotten.”

Elena’s eyes burned. She blinked hard, trying not to cry. “You’re very kind to a stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger. You’re Elena.” He said it like her name meant something. Like she meant something.

God, she’d forgotten what that felt like.

They moved to a quieter corner, away from the crowd. Dante leaned against the wall, still holding his champagne, studying her with those intense gray eyes.

“Can I ask you something personal?” he said finally.

“You can ask. I might not answer.”

“Fair enough.” He paused. “The man who told you that you weren’t good enough—are you still with him?”

Elena’s hand tightened on her glass. “That’s very personal.”

“I warned you.” But his voice was gentle. “You don’t have to answer.”

She should lie. Should say she was single, or happily married, or anything but the truth. But the champagne had loosened her tongue, and the mask made her brave.

“I’m married,” she said quietly. “To someone who doesn’t see me anymore. Maybe never did.”

Dante’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. Anger, maybe. Or pity.

“Then he’s a fool,” Dante said finally. “And you deserve better.”

“Everyone keeps saying that. But what if I don’t? What if I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be?”

“Do you believe that?”

Elena opened her mouth to say yes. To defend Marcus, defend her marriage, defend the choice she’d made five years ago.

But the word wouldn’t come.

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t believe it at all.”

Dante set down his champagne and took a step closer. Close enough that Elena could smell his cologne, something expensive and subtle. Close enough to see the strong line of his jaw beneath the mask.

“Then leave,” he said simply. “Whatever is keeping you there, it’s not worth your happiness.”

“It’s not that simple…”

“It never is. But you’re stronger than you think, Elena.” He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers gentle. “I can see it. Even if you can’t.”

The touch was electric. Intimate. Too much and not nearly enough.

Elena should step back. Should remember she was married. Should remember all the reasons this was wrong.

Instead, she leaned into his touch.

“I should go,” she breathed. But she didn’t move.

“Should you?” Dante’s thumb traced her cheekbone. “Or do you want to stay a little longer? Be someone else for a few more hours?”

“I—” Elena’s thoughts scattered. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

“Then let me help you figure it out.” His voice dropped lower. “Come with me. Just for a little while. No expectations, no pressure. Just two people who don’t want the night to end yet.”

It was a terrible idea. Dangerous. The kind of choice that could ruin everything.

But Elena’s marriage was already ruined. Marcus was in Boston with Isabelle. And for the first time in five years, someone was looking at her like she mattered.

“Okay,” she heard herself say. “Just for a little while.”

Dante smiled—the first real smile she’d seen from him all night. It transformed his face, made him almost unbearably handsome.

He took her hand. “Come on, piccola. Let’s get out of here.”

Elena let him lead her through the crowd, past Victoria who gave her a shocked thumbs up, out of the ballroom into the cool night air.

She should stop this. Should go home, go to bed, wake up tomorrow and pretend this never happened.

But she didn’t want to.

For once in her life, Elena wanted to do something reckless. Something just for herself.

Even if she regretted it in the morning.

The hotel suite was on the top floor.

Elena stood in the middle of the living room, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Central Park, the city lights stretching out like stars below them.

It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

“Would you like a drink?” Dante asked from behind her. He’d removed his mask, and Elena caught his reflection in the window, dark hair, strong features, those storm-gray eyes watching her carefully.

“I should go.” The words came out automatically, five years of being a good wife overriding everything else.

“You should do whatever you want.” Dante moved to the bar, poured two glasses of something amber. “But you don’t have to leave unless you want to. We can just talk, Elena. That’s all this has to be.”

She turned to face him. Without the mask, he looked older, late thirties, maybe. Handsome in a way that seemed almost dangerous. This was a man who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it.

“Why did you bring me here?” Elena asked. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” He crossed the room, handed her a glass. “I know you’re unhappy. I know someone’s been treating you like you’re nothing. And I know…” He paused, his eyes intense. “I know you deserve one night where someone treats you like you’re everything.”

Elena’s breath caught. “That’s a line. You use that on all the women you meet at galas?”

“I’ve never used it before in my life.” Dante’s voice was completely serious. “And I meant every word.”

They stood there, inches apart, the air between them crackling with tension. Elena knew she should leave. Should go home to her empty house and her empty marriage and pretend none of this happened.

But she was so tired of pretending.

“I’m married,” she said again, like a confession. Like a warning.

“I know.”

“This is wrong.”

“Probably.”

“I don’t do things like this. I’m not… I’m not this person.”