The mansion looks different tonight. A little too polished, too damn perfect .

Candles flicker in the sconces along the corridor, casting long shadows over the polished floors.

The scent of citrus and warm woodsmoke lingers faintly in the air, mixing with the sharper, expensive spice of whatever cologne Enzo must’ve doused himself in.

Everything has been ironed and polished, even the people.

Everyone I pass seems to be walking straighter, smiling tighter. Like they’ve all been told to play nice for the guests.

Guests I don’t know.

Not really.

All I’ve been told is that the Mancini’s are an old family. Important business contacts. Enzo and Bianca said it would be a “formal evening.” Which, in Russo code, means pretend everything is normal while the ground shifts under your feet.

I smooth a hand down the side of my dress, deep emerald silk that clings tighter than I’m used to, the hem grazing my ankles, the neckline low enough to earn a second glance. Bianca insisted it brought out my eyes, but I’m not sure if I want my eyes seen tonight.

My heels echo softly against the floor as I approach the main dining room, nerves buzzing low and constant in my stomach. I still don’t know why I was invited. I’m not part of the business. I’m barely part of the family.

But when Bianca reached for my hand earlier, smiling too bright and saying, “You’re with us now,” I didn’t argue, I just nodded.

I pass one of the tall mirrors in the hallway and catch a glimpse of myself. I barely recognise the girl staring back. She looks older. Sharper. Like she’s preparing for something she doesn’t fully understand.

The heavy doors ahead are cracked open. Light and laughter spill through, soft piano music playing beneath it all, glasses clinking, silver on china, sophisticated and elegant.

I inhale once, deeply and then step through.

And the moment I do, the air changes. Like walking into a storm moments before it breaks.

The second I step through the doorway, a hush curls at the edge of the noise, too subtle to name, but I feel it. Like the room holds its breath.

The long table is set in silver and crystal, each place immaculate, glowing under the soft chandelier light. The wine glints dark in the glasses, and laughter hums at the far end of the room, fake, delicate, like glass on the verge of shattering.

Ares isn’t here yet.

And neither is she .

But I can feel her already.

Giana Mancini, the girl promised to the man I love.

The man who is mine .

My steps slow as I move along the edge of the room. No one says it out loud, but everyone knows why tonight matters. It isn’t about wine or business. It isn’t about hospitality or diplomacy. It’s about names and power and control, and which woman will sit beside Ares when the smoke clears.

I grip the back of the nearest chair for a moment, steadying myself. My palms are cold, even though my skin feels like it’s burning from the inside out.

I shouldn’t be here. Every instinct in me says so. But I came anyway. Because if I didn’t, I’d be handing her everything without a fight.

I catch my reflection in the rim of a wine glass, flushed cheeks, tight mouth, eyes too wide. I try to relax my expression, smooth my posture. But nothing stops the way my pulse jumps every time someone new walks through the door.

She could walk in any moment.

The girl with the last name that sounds like a crown. The girl bred for this life. The girl Don Luciano chose. The one he deems perfect for his son.

I already hate her, and I haven’t even seen her face yet.

The chair beside me shifts as Bianca sits, smoothing her silk skirt over crossed legs. She reaches for her wine glass with the kind of ease I can’t mimic tonight. Her expression is neutral, perfect, practiced, but I can feel the tightness in her body.

She’s nervous too.

Luciano stands at the head of the table, glass in hand, voice smooth as velvet as he welcomes the guests already seated.

There are men I recognise, half-smiles, firm handshakes, glances that slide too slow in my direction.

Enzo sits near the end, his expression unreadable, eyes flicking toward the door every few seconds.

Just past Enzo, I catch sight of Matteo, half-sunk in his chair, wine glass dangling lazily from his fingers. He’s dressed in black, casual compared to the rest, but the tension in his jaw betrays him. His hazel eyes flick to the door, then to me. He hasn’t smiled all night.

Still no Ares.

Still no Giana.

Fuck, what if they’re together? My heart clenches painfully inside my chest. Enough to make me visibly wince.

The clink of silverware. A soft cough. Another bottle of wine opened with a hiss.

Then the doors open again.

I don’t turn right away. I don’t need to.

I feel her arrival like a drop in air pressure.

Like a shift in gravity. Conversations slow and heads lift.

And I force myself to look. Matteo shifts as Giana enters, his gaze cutting sharply between her and Ares’s empty seat.

He watches the way Luciano and Enzo greet her, the way Giana floats across the room like a crowned queen.

But his attention keeps drifting, past her, toward me.

But all I can do is stare at her. The way she glides into the room like it was built for her.

Giana Mancini is tall, poised, and beautiful in that ruthless kind of way, every feature carved sharp, every movement calculated elegance.

She wears a fitted black gown with gold threading, long dark hair twisted into something regal, flawless.

There’s a diamond at her throat. The kind that says I was born into power.

Her hazel eyes like two liquid pools of honey scan the room once, measured, completely detached.

Then they land on the empty seat beside Luciano’s.

Ares’s seat.

And she smiles.

Not at me. Past me. Like I’m something invisible. Like I don’t matter.

Heat burns in my chest, crawling up my throat, settling behind my eyes. I press my hands into my lap to hide the way they’ve started to shake.

She crosses the room with perfect steps, greeted by Enzo and Luciano like she’s royalty.

Like she already belongs here.

I stare down at the napkin in front of me, counting the seams in the linen. Trying not to scream. I know who she is. I know what tonight is supposed to be. And I know what I am in all of this. A shadow. A complication. A mistake .

But what she doesn’t know is this, he’s already mine. In every fucking way that matters.

Giana takes her seat across the table with the ease of someone who’s never once questioned her place in the world.

The conversation around her picks back up, but it’s stilted now. Shaped by her presence. Everyone’s tone shifts, straighter backs, polished smiles. The kind of performance that feels less like a dinner and more like a coronation.

She laughs softly at something Enzo says, her posture elegant, her fingers curling around the stem of her wine glass with slow, deliberate grace. Every movement says the same thing: I belong here. This is my world.

I haven’t taken a sip of my wine. My throat’s too tight for that.

Instead, I keep my eyes lowered, pretending to study the embroidery on the tablecloth. But I feel her. Every glance she throws. Every measured smile. Every inch of her long, perfect frame draped in silk like it was poured onto her by God himself.

She hasn’t looked at me once. Not really. Not the way women do when they’re sizing each other up. Because she doesn’t see me as competition. She sees me as… irrelevant.

I want to claw that smug stillness right off her face.

My stomach turns, a slow burn building low in my gut as I force myself to sit straighter. Bianca leans in toward me, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to stay,” she says, eyes scanning the table as if she’s commenting on something ordinary. But her words aren’t casual. They’re careful. Quiet. Laced with something like warning.

I force a smile, small and brittle. My hands stay folded in my lap, nails digging into my palm.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

She exhales, slow and tight. Doesn’t push again. But I can feel her watching me now. Like she knows I’m bracing for impact and she’s waiting for the crash.

My smile stays fixed. But inside, I’m screaming.

Where is he.

Where. Is. He.

Because every second that seat next to me stays empty, it looks more like surrender.

More like she’s won. And I don’t know what I’ll do if he walks in here and plays along.

If he so much as smiles at her. Shakes her father’s hand. Takes the seat beside her and not the one by his father . If he acts like I was ever something he could give up.

I press my hand flat to the table to stop it from trembling.

And I wait. And then, moments later, the door opens a second time.

I don’t turn. I can’t. But I know it’s him.

The shift is instant. Tension pulls tight through the room like someone just strung a wire across the table and dared everyone to breathe wrong.

I glance up, slow and cautious.

And there he is.

Ares Russo walks in like a slow-moving storm, dark suit, no tie and his hair a little messy like he ran his hands through it one too many times. A ghost of defiance in every step. He doesn’t offer a smile. Doesn’t bow to custom. He just moves, each footstep purposeful, dragging silence in his wake.

I watch him, unblinking...waiting. He doesn’t look at me.

Doesn’t look at her either.

He takes the seat Luciano gestures to, one away from Giana, at the head of the table, and says nothing.

Not even to Enzo. Not even to me.

Dinner begins. Courses come and go. Mine untouched . Wine is poured. Conversation stretches like a taut string, measured, rehearsed. Giana fills the silence between men’s words with soft laughter and agreeable glances. She leans toward Ares when she speaks. He doesn’t lean back.

I try not to watch him.