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It’s not shocking. I mean, he’s been tossing charm around like glitter at a music festival. But still. Watching it unfold live feels personal. Like I’m being ghosted in surround sound.

I need to stop watching, but I can’t seem to look away. I’m bloody locked in. The way she’s moaning and grinding her hips, I feel heat rise in my chest. It’s not jealousy, exactly. It’s something else, something... messier .

The same lips that had me distracted earlier? Busy.

The same boy who made my knees wobble during a slow dance? Occupied.

I retreat in silence, like someone who accidentally clicked on a spoiler thread and now has to pretend they’re fine.

I glance down at my drink. Now useless and flat.

This is how the fantasy dies. Not with betrayal. Not with drama. But with the very clear image of Matteo Russo enthusiastically exercising his jaw strength against someone who isn’t me.

I exhale sharply and turn back toward the reception.

Somewhere inside me, a violin plays a dramatic solo.

Between that run-in with Ares and now witnessing Matteo full-on finger fucking a girl, my brain is officially scrambled. Nothing in me feels normal right now.

“Jordyn, there you are!” Oh, crap .

I hear my sister drunkenly shriek when I try to make a beeline inside the house. Cursing inwardly that I’ve been caught, I slowly turn and watch as she picks up her wedding dress and scurries over to me. “Where have you been?”

Bianca loops her arm through mine with a dreamy sigh. “It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it really is,” I reply, which is technically true. Sicily is gorgeous—olive trees, lemon blossoms, eternal sunshine, and an atmosphere that smells like romance and roasted garlic. I’m ready to crawl upstairs and end this day with dignity and leftover tiramisu when the music shifts.

Suddenly the mandolin explodes like it's being chased by caffeine, and the crowd responds like someone activated their secret party chip. A shout echoes across the garden. “La Tarantella!”

Wait. What? Did someone say tarantula? Is this code? Are we running? Why is no one panicking?

Within seconds, tables are shoved aside, guests are clapping like synchronized humans in a cult, and an aggressively cheerful circle begins to form in the middle of the garden. People grab hands and start spinning, stomping, and smiling like they’ve just won free pizza for life.

I attempt a stealthy retreat. Just a step. Maybe two. Maybe a reverse shuffle behind a decorative hedge.

Too late.

One minute I’m contemplating dramatic exit strategies, the next I’m being flung into what looks like a folklore-infused human cyclone. The hand that grabbed mine belongs to a very enthusiastic aunt in a floral dress who clearly has zero interest in my social anxiety or personal space.

“Oh bollocks,” I mutter. “I’ve been conscripted.”

She beams. “Ballare, bella ragazza!” Dance, beautiful girl.

I want to tell her I’m more of a ‘standing awkwardly at the snack table’ type of girl. But before I can escape, I’m yanked into the circle like a sacrificial offering to the gods of coordination and public embarrassment.

People stomp and twirl with alarming confidence. Someone’s aunt in sequins is kicking near me with dangerous enthusiasm. There’s a toddler spinning like a tiny tornado. A grandpa flings his hands up to the sky like he’s calling upon pasta gods.

I try to match the rhythm, but my feet have decided they’re freelance agents. One leg twitches left. The other spins out of alignment. I look like a backup dancer in a very misguided musical.

Bianca beams at me from across the circle like we’re sharing a beautiful memory. I nod back like I’m okay, which is a lie. I’m just smiling through terror and sweat.

And then I feel a firm hand take mine. I look up... fuck , Matteo. His smile is sharp, breathless, and entirely too pleased with himself.

Laughter rises around me. Someone shouts something in rapid Italian.

My head is spinning and not from the dance.

..but from him, Matteo. He’s right in front of me, smirking like none of what I saw earlier happened.

Like I didn’t just see him with another girl.

Like I’m just another piece on the dance floor, and this is all some charming little performance.

His fingers find mine again and we spin faster. He leans in, voice low and smug. “Did you enjoy the show?”

My chest tightens. I yank my hand back, but the circle turns us, forcing our paths to cross again seconds later. Wait, did he see me watching them earlier? “What show?” I snap. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oh, nice one, Jordyn. Way to make an absolute div of yourself.

Matteo chuckles, that signature smirk never faltering. “Denial looks good on you. Guess we’re both pretending tonight eh, Fossette.”

I’m about to say something, something cutting, something witty...when I feel it.

That presence. Again . It’s like that feeling when every hair on your body stands on end but you’re not cold. My breath hitches in my throat, and I’m unable to resist the urge to turn my head in its direction.

And fuck me, there he is...Ares Russo is standing at the edge of the circle, half in the light, half in the dark. Just w atching . His muscular arms are folded over his broad chest, face unreadable, but those eyes? Holy Zeus, they’re locked on me. Not Matteo. Not the dance or anyone else. Me.

My heart stutters and I feel an unfamiliar heat travel up the length of my spine.

The music speeds up. The laughter grows louder. But all I can hear is the beat of my own pulse in my ears. And Ares, unmoving, watching me slowly burn under his intense gaze.

I can’t quite name it, but there’s something dark and dangerous about him, like an energy that coils beneath the surface, pulling at me like a current I can’t resist. And just like the tide obeys the moon, I find myself helplessly drawn to it… to him .

I blink, and the space where he stood a second ago is now empty, like he was never there at all. Leaving me wondering if I imagined the whole thing.