Chapter 4: The Gala

The dress was blood red.

Alessia stood in front of the mirror in her suite, studying her reflection. The Versace gown fit like it had been made for her—plunging neckline, thigh-high slit, silk that clung to every curve. The stylist had spent two hours on her hair and makeup, turning her into someone she barely recognized. Someone elegant. Someone expensive.

Someone who belonged in Damian Blackwood's world.

The diamond on her finger caught the light, throwing rainbows across the walls. She still wasn't used to the weight of it. The way it marked her as his.

A knock at the door.

"Come in."

Damian entered, and the air left the room.

He wore a black tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, his dark hair swept back from his face. He looked like a predator dressed for the hunt. His eyes swept over her, slow and deliberate, and something flickered in their depths—something hot and dangerous.

"You'll do," he said.

"High praise."

He walked toward her, pulling a velvet box from his pocket. "One more thing." He opened it to reveal a necklace—diamonds and sapphires, glittering like frozen fire. "This belonged to my mother. It's been in the family for generations."

"I can't wear this."

"You can. And you will." He moved behind her, his fingers brushing the back of her neck as he fastened the clasp. The cool metal settled against her collarbone, heavy with history. "Every woman who wears this necklace becomes a Blackwood. It's tradition."

"I'm not becoming a Blackwood. This is fake."

His hands rested on her shoulders, his reflection meeting hers in the mirror. "Tonight, it's real. Every camera, every reporter, every guest—they all need to believe it. Which means you need to believe it."

"And if I can't?"

"Then we're both dead."

He stepped back, and the spell broke. "The car is waiting. Let's go."

The gala was held at the Grand Metropolitan, a hotel so opulent it made the Blackwood penthouse look modest. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, champagne fountains. The city's elite mingled in their finest, every smile hiding a knife.

Alessia clung to Damian's arm as they entered, her heart pounding beneath her calm exterior. Cameras flashed. Reporters called out questions. Damian handled them with practiced ease, his hand resting on the small of her back like he'd done it a thousand times.

"Mr. Blackwood! Is it true you're engaged?"

"Who's the lucky lady?"

Damian stopped, turning to face the cameras with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "This is Alessia Moretti. My fiancée. We're both very happy."

He pulled her closer, his lips brushing her temple. The gesture was tender, possessive, and entirely for show. But it sent a shiver down her spine anyway.

Inside the ballroom, the real performance began. Alessia smiled until her cheeks ached. She laughed at jokes that weren't funny. She held Damian's hand like she never wanted to let go. And all the while, she watched. She catalogued faces, noted exits, studied the security detail. Old habits.

Halfway through the evening, Damian leaned down to murmur in her ear. "See the man by the bar? Gray suit, silver hair?"

She found him. "What about him?"

"His name is Viktor Morozov. Ivanov's cousin. He's been feeding information to my enemies for months. I need you to steal his phone."

Her eyes widened. "Now?"

"Now. It's in his inside jacket pocket. I'll distract him. You have thirty seconds."

Before she could protest, he was gone, striding toward Viktor with a smile that looked almost friendly. Alessia watched them shake hands, watched Damian steer him toward a quieter corner. Her heart hammered.

She moved.

Years of training took over. She drifted through the crowd like smoke, her red dress a blur of color. When she reached Viktor's side, she stumbled—just slightly—and caught herself on his arm.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she breathed, her voice pitched high and breathless. "These heels are murder."

Viktor barely glanced at her, too focused on whatever Damian was saying. "No problem."

Her fingers slipped into his jacket. Found the phone. Slid it out. All in the space of a heartbeat.

"Are you alright?" Damian asked, his eyes meeting hers over Viktor's shoulder.

"Perfect," she said. "Just needed some air."

She disappeared into the crowd, the phone tucked into the bodice of her dress. Mission accomplished.

Later, in the car, Damian turned to her with something that might have been respect.

"The phone?"

She pulled it out, handing it to him. "You're welcome."

He examined it briefly, then tucked it into his pocket. "That was impressive."

"I told you. I'm good at what I do."

"I'm beginning to understand that." He paused, his eyes searching her face. "You're also a good actress. The stumble, the breathless voice. You almost had me convinced."

"Almost?"

"You forgot one thing."

"What?"

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. "When you touch another man—even for a mission—you're still mine."

Before she could respond, he kissed her. Not the controlled, testing kiss from before. This one was fierce, possessive, his fingers tangling in her hair as he pulled her against him. She tasted whiskey and danger and something darker, something that made her pulse race.

When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard.

"That," he said, "was for the cameras."

"There are no cameras here."

His smile was slow, dangerous. "I know."

He turned away, looking out the window as the city lights blurred past.

Alessia pressed her fingers to her lips, her heart pounding.

She was in trouble.