Page 10

I look like a stranger.

A stranger with Calista Rourke’s eyes but none of her fire.

I step into the ballroom, back straight, chin high. The scent of champagne, cologne, and expensive perfume drifts around me in thick waves. Music plays from the string quartet in the corner—a soft and elegant tune.

Eyes turn toward me. Gazes narrow and linger. Whispers trail like smoke. I walk among predators now—syndicate allies and enemies dressed in silk and smiles, each one offering thinly veiled congratulations like knives wrapped in ribbon.

And then I see him.

Lazaro.

He’s already here, standing near the far end of the ballroom, a glass of champagne in hand. His posture is composed. That perfectly tailored suit clings to him like it was sewn into his skin—dark charcoal with a crisp white shirt beneath, collar sharp enough to draw blood.

Our eyes meet.

He looks at me for a moment too long—just enough to send a chill spiraling down my spine. His gaze sweeps over the gown, lingering at the neckline before returning to my face. His expressions are unreadable. But there’s no admiration in them. Just... ownership. And then, the bastard smiles as he walks toward me.

My stomach twists.

God, I hate him.

I remind myself of that as the distance closes between us.

"You clean up well," he says smoothly, offering me his arm. I hesitate, then place my hand on it only for the sake of appearances. His skin is warm beneath the layers of fabric.

"Funny," I mutter. "Didn't think you noticed anything beyond your own reflection."

He leans in slightly, voice low and venomous. "Play nice, Calista. You’re the happy fiancée tonight."

"I’d rather drink poison," I hiss through clenched teeth.

He chuckles, leaning in closer. "Smile anyway. And try not to stab anyone with a dessert fork."

Then, with practiced ease, he presses a kiss to my cheek.

No, not my cheek—lower. My jaw.

My breath catches involuntarily. For a second, I want to shove him off. But a part of me—the part that’s spent too long being seen as prey—freezes. His mouth lingers just long enough to blur my hate with an unfamiliar feeling. One I wouldn't like to feel for him.

I pull back quickly, eyes blazing.

"Don’t ever do that again."

He just smirks. "It’s for the cameras. You’ll get used to it."

"I won’t."

"You will," he says, with finality.

And just like that, we’re surrounded by people—giving fake kisses and receiving hollow congratulations.

Lucrezia appears by my side, graceful and sharp-eyed, offering whispered glances like instructions. A subtle nod here, a half-smirk there, the press of fingers against my wrist when I start to stiffen too much. She’s choreographing my every move with invisible strings.

When I finally manage a perfectly timed smile, she leans closer and whispers, "You're a natural."

Then, without another word, she glides away toward another woman draped in emerald silk, leaving me to swim in this sea of snakes.

Lazaro stays beside me, his hand sliding to my waist—firm, possessive, rehearsed. His fingers grip me just enough to be noticed, a silent cue that I’m his property.