Chapter 5

The black silk dress felt like a shroud. Or maybe it was a uniform. It was definitely a target. Evelina moved through the vast, quiet suite, the heavy fabric rustling against her thighs like chains. She was dressed for war, but the weaponsher mind, her defiance felt useless and small against the scale of Dante’s empire.

The mirror showed her a stranger. The dress was designed for drama: a high neck, long sleeves, but cut low in the back, exposing the fragile line of her spine. It made her look sleek, valuable, and utterly owned. She hated how much the fabric muted her. It was a perfect, expensive lie.

At 20:00 sharp, the soft chime of the elevator announced Dante.

He was already in a tuxedo. Not just a suit; a tuxedo tailored so perfectly it looked like it had been poured over him. He looked like the ruler of a cold, beautiful kingdom. He smelled like success and something dark and clean that she couldn’t name.

He didn't offer a compliment. He just walked into the living area and stopped, his eyes sweeping over her from the polished toe of her unfamiliar heels to the pinned-up severity of her hair.

“You look like the value you represent,” he said, his voice flat. It was the highest praise she was going to get, and it tasted like ash.

“The Sforza deal requires a professional, not a decoration,” she said, gripping the small, useless clutch bag he’d provided.

“Tonight, you are both. You are a distraction for the old man and a tool for me. Don't speak unless spoken to, and when you do, be charming. Remember the consequences of failure, Evelina.”

The consequence wasn't losing her job. The consequence was losing Chloe's medical funding. The thought of her sister, frail and dependent, was a punch to the gut that immediately stiffened her posture. She would play his game. She had to.

The journey down to the event floor was silent. The building was a self-contained world. The Sforza gala wasn't held in a hotel; it was held in Dante's private events wing three floors down.

When the elevator doors opened, the noise hit her: a sudden wave of chatter, crystal clinking, and the polite, false laughter of the financial elite. The room was breathtaking: high ceilings, marble floors that looked like liquid mercury, and walls lined with pieces of art that cost more than her family’s entire debt.

Dante placed a heavy, proprietary hand on the small of her back. The touch was cold, non-negotiable. It wasn't about affection; it was a leash.

“Stay close,” he murmured against her ear, his breath warm and intrusive. “Sforza is watching.”

She stiffened but didn’t pull away. She couldn't.

Dante led her straight through the room, past the mingling groups, toward a small man with a nervous, sweaty face, leaning against a velvet rope near a hideous, bronze statue. Count Sforza.

Dante was all charmfalse, calculated, and predatory. He greeted Sforza with a handshake that was both firm and condescending.

“Count Sforza,” Dante said smoothly. “I apologize for the delay in closing the final acquisition. But I have someone I want you to meet. This is my personal curator, Evelina Thorne.”

Sforza’s eyes lingered over Evelina, and it wasn't the kind of look a man gives a professional. It was the calculating, hungry gaze of a man assessing a luxurious object.

“A pleasure, Miss Thorne. You are even more exquisite than Mr. Valenti described.” Sforza took her hand and raised it to his lips, but instead of a polite kiss, his thumb stroked the soft skin inside her wrist for a sickening moment too long.

Evelina pulled her hand back instantly, the action barely noticeable, but the message was clear. She felt the cold pressure of Dante’s hand on her back increase, a silent warning to behave.

“Thank you, Count,” Evelina replied, her voice steady and cool. “I hear you were looking to divest the Veronese copy. A bold move, considering the current market instability.”

She purposefully used the exact, critical language from her report. She wanted Sforza to know she knew exactly what she was looking ata fake.

Sforza’s smile faltered, replaced by a defensive flush. Dante’s grip tightened further, pulling her flush against his side.

“Miss Thorne specializes in authentication and market fluidity,” Dante cut in smoothly, his voice a low rumble of warning that was only for her. “She is meticulous. Almost annoyingly so. We are currently consolidating, Count. Perhaps a walk toward the auction preview? I want your final thoughts on the contemporary acquisitions.”

Dante steered her away from Sforza, walking her toward a small, roped-off gallery section. The touch was possessive, a public declaration of ownership that made her skin crawl.

“You don’t use my resources to humiliate my partners,” Dante whispered, his face inches from her ear as they walked. “You are here to grease the wheels, not throw sand in the gears.”

“I was professional,” she shot back, barely moving her lips. “I simply confirmed my expertise. He knows I know the truth about that fake. Lying will only make him despise you more later.”

Dante stopped them just inside the gallery, facing a massive, abstract canvas painted in violent reds and blacks. He didn't look at the painting; he looked at her.

“Your job is not to provide the truth. Your job is to provide the illusion I require. Tonight, the illusion is that I trust his judgment. If you ever jeopardize a deal again, I will not simply move the pens on your counter, Evelina. I will move to your sister’s apartment. Do you understand the difference between my discipline and your childish games?”

She felt the cold reality of the threat. She was not the one at risk; Chloe was. The fear hit her so hard that the edges of her vision blurred. She felt a sickening wave of heat, the silk gown suddenly suffocating. Her hands trembled.

He saw the fear. He demanded it.

Dante’s eyes dropped to her lips. He leaned in slowly, deliberately. This was not a move for the audience; this was a calculated punishment just for her.

He didn't kiss her gently. He claimed her mouth with a possessive, dominating hunger that stole her air. It was a cold, brutal declaration of victory. His mouth was firm, his intent ruthless, crushing her soft resistance. He tasted expensive scotch and raw power.

The moment lasted too long. It was not a kiss of passion; it was an act of ownership witnessed by the red canvas. She felt the heat, the terror, and beneath it, a sliver of confusing, terrible physical awareness that she despised.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't look at the gallery, or the guests, or the painting. He looked only at her, his eyes dark with satisfaction.

“That is the illusion, Evelina,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble. “Now go charm Sforza. Show him that what I possess is worth the price.”

She stood there, shaking, her lips stinging. She didn't cry. She wouldn't. She forced herself to breathe, adjusted the perfect silk gown, and walked back out into the bright lights, carrying the cold weight of his claim like a visible burden. Her strength had just failed her, and now she had to rely on a mask of perfection to survive.