Chapter 4 - Bianchi ?

Alexandra Rossi

“A-Antonio?”

His name was nothing more than a stunned whisper on my lips. I couldn’t process his sudden presence—the reality of him—until his warm hand closed around my arm, pulling me into the solid wall of his chest. With one decisive step, he swept me away from Tristan and Isabella, his movement fluid and absolute.

The sharp, elegant lines of his face held me captive. His gaze was a winter storm—cold, penetrating, and utterly mesmerizing. I was rendered speechless.

“Are you planning to stare at me all night, Alexa?”

His voice, now a low command, startled me back to myself. I realized we were already in the deserted corridor outside the performance hall. My arm slipped from his grasp, but the freedom was fleeting. In an instant, his hand reclaimed mine, pushing me back with a controlled force until my shoulders met the unyielding wall. Our faces were now inches apart.

His warm breath fanned across my skin, mingling with my own short, frantic gasps. The frantic rhythm of our heartbeats was the only sound in the hushed space, a palpable drumming that tightened the air between us. My eyes, locked on his intense stare, helplessly traced the blade of his nose, then dropped to the full, pronounced curve of his lips. I swallowed hard, a futile attempt to quell the riot of sensation rising within me. My body grew feverish, every nerve alight, as his scent—clean cologne and pure, heated male—invaded my senses.

“You…” The word was a hot whisper against my ear.

His voice, his breath, his very warmth cascaded over me, a dizzying avalanche. Unconsciously, I swallowed again, drawing a shaky breath as I felt the rough pad of his thumb graze my cheekbone. I closed my eyes.

“You don’t deserve to be disrespected, Alexa.”

Then, as if he had merely been toying with the desire he’d so effortlessly ignited, he pulled away. The space he left was suddenly vast and cold.

“What are you talking about?” I managed, steadying my breath and putting more distance between us, trying to reclaim some dignity.

But Antonio’s gaze only sharpened, that icy glare piercing straight through my defenses, striking a chord of deep, unnerving vulnerability in my core.

“Stay close to me,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “Before you’re humiliated further… Alexa.”

Ignoring my question entirely, he closed the distance once more, tucking my hand firmly into the crook of his arm. His muscles were taut under the fine fabric of his suit. Without another word, he led me not to the Grand Tier seating, but up to a private balcony—a secluded perch with a sweeping, flawless view of the stage. He produced two tickets, as if he had planned this rendezvous all along.

“Please, Alexa.”

His next gesture stole my breath anew. With surprising gentleness, he helped me out of my coat and guided me to my seat. This softness, this attentiveness, was a shocking contrast to the aggressive possessiveness of moments before. He said nothing more of consequence, his focus seemingly entirely on ensuring I experienced the opera’s soaring crescendos and tragic finale. For those few hours, I was simply captivated.

As the final curtain fell and applause thundered through the hall, I turned to him. “Thank you.”

“Don’t go home yet, Alexa.” It wasn’t a request. It was a demand, underscored by the fierce intensity in his eyes.

“What?” My brows knitted together in sharp confusion.

He took a deep breath, his eyes flickering down to the dress circle where Tristan sat, Isabella’s hand nestled in his. “Don’t go home. Or you’ll—”

“That is none of your business, Mr. Antonio!” I cut him off, a flash of defiance returning. “I am grateful—flattered, even—by your kindness tonight. But you overstepped earlier. And yet…” I leaned in slightly, meeting his intensity with my own. “You know I am still Mrs. Laurent! Imagine the damage if people were to—”

“Do you truly care?” His interruption was swift, his lips curving into a strange, mocking half-smile.

“What do you mean?”

“Look around, Alexa. This hall is packed with nobility, tycoons, social butterflies—the very elite of this city. And not a single one of them recognizes you as Mrs. Laurent. No one. Except for me.”

My throat constricted. My mind went blank. A cold, terrifying truth surged through my veins, making my heart stammer against my ribs.

“Doesn’t it feel bizarre?” he pressed, his voice a velvet-wrapped blade. “Your status is a ghost to them, while the woman currently holding your husband’s hand is being celebrated for the title that is legally yours.”

His words were a physical blow. A deep, old hurt and a fresh, overwhelming shame consumed me as I watched Tristan and Isabella below, smiling and accepting greetings as the city’s newest golden couple.

“Can you really go back to that house,” Antonio whispered, relentless, “and welcome Tristan Laurent into your bed after seeing him here with her?”

The air left my lungs. My vision blurred at the edges, hot tears threatening to spill. My heart didn’t just break; it shattered into dust. This pain. I knew of his betrayals. I had endured years of his casual cruelty. Why did a foolish part of me still cling to hope? Why did this feel like a new, devastating wound?

“I-I can handle my own life, Mr. Antonio!” I insisted, voice trembling. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must—”

“Let me walk you out.”

“Are you insane?!” The words burst from me, louder than I intended.

Antonio’s only answer was that infuriating, captivating smile. In one fluid motion, he closed the final distance between us, caging me against the wall once more. To any distant observer, we would have looked like lovers in a passionate embrace.

Our breaths collided. Our faces were so close that less than an inch separated us. I could see every perfect detail of his lips: their sculpted shape, their tempting color, the faint, spicy scent of him, their impossibly alluring texture.

“You are the one driving me insane, Alexa,” he murmured, his gaze trailing a slow, burning path down my neck and over the bare skin of my shoulders.

My eyes fluttered closed. My lips parted of their own volition as he leaned in. Every cell in my body was taut with anticipation, ready. Some wild, desperate impulse strangled all resistance.

A crushing wave of disappointment washed over me when he pulled back. Instead of his kiss, he pressed a crisp, white business card into my palm.

Damn it! I cursed inwardly, burning with shame at my own wantonness and the acute letdown.

“My driver will take you home,” he stated, his tone brooking no argument.

“But I—”

“You cannot refuse me again, Alexa.” His voice was low, final. “Or I will carry you through that lobby and demonstrate to every person in this building exactly who you belong to.”

The threat vibrated with terrifying sincerity. I knew, with absolute certainty, he was not bluffing. I gave a single, stiff nod, trying to create a sliver of space between us.

“Keep that card safe,” he instructed, his finger brushing my wrist, leaving a trail of fire. “Call me. Any time you need me.”

“Need you for what?” I challenged, a last spark of defiance.

Antonio’s grin widened, a flash of white in the dim light. He leaned in, placing a soft, deliberate kiss on first one cheek, then the other, his lips searing my skin. Then he whispered his answer against my ear:

“To get your revenge. Or to change partners.”

My shock had not even begun to recede when his lips finally, decisively, claimed mine.

This was not merely a kiss. It was a conquest. He framed my face with his hands, holding me firmly, deepening the connection until he tasted every part of me. His lips were warm, soft, yet demanding. One strong arm banded around my back, locking me in place, ensuring I could not—and did not want to—escape until he was thoroughly satisfied. The world, the opera, Tristan, all of it dissolved into the heat and the promise and the shocking rightness of that kiss.