The chandeliers blazed above like a thousand captive stars, their golden light spilling across marble floors polished to the sheen of liquid glass. The Valentini-Rossi gala was not a party—it was a display of power, a theatre of wealth where enemies smiled with champagne in hand and daggers hidden beneath their tongues.
Isabella Valentini stood at the edge of the grand hall, her silk gown whispering against her legs, her hand resting lightly on a crystal flute of champagne she hadn't touched. Around her, music swelled—a waltz as polished and rehearsed as the conversations happening beneath it. And yet, she felt suffocated.
Her father's hand had rested on her arm all evening, steering her like a prized possession from one conversation to the next: investors, politicians, allies dressed as friends. The Valentini empire demanded appearances, and tonight Isabella was the jewel on display.
But jewels were made to shine, not to breathe.
So when her father turned to greet an arriving senator, Isabella slipped away. Her heels clicked across the marble as she wove through the crowd, pulse racing, until she reached the far end of the ballroom where velvet drapes parted to reveal a quieter corridor.
She exhaled, shoulders relaxing. Just five minutes. Five minutes without her father's eyes, without whispered expectations about marriage alliances and loyalty to the family name.
But her solitude did not last.
"Isabella Valentini."
The voice was slurred, heavy with drink. She turned to see Luca Romano, heir of a minor rival family, his tie loosened, his smirk ugly under the chandelier glow. He reeked of whiskey, his gaze dragging over her like something sticky and unwanted.
"You look… dangerous tonight," he drawled, stepping closer. "Your father keeps you hidden like some treasure, but treasures are meant to be touched."
Isabella stiffened, fingers tightening around her glass. "Step aside, Luca."
He laughed, catching her wrist with fingers too hot, too insistent. "Don't play saint. Everyone knows Valentini daughters bleed the same as anyone else—"
"Let her go."
The voice cut through the air—low, steady, laced with a steel that made Luca freeze.
Adrian Rossi.
He stood a few feet away, tall, sharp in his black suit, every line of him honed with ruthless elegance. His presence was magnetic, dangerous not just because of his name, but because of the way his gaze locked on Luca like a predator deciding whether to strike.
Luca released her instantly, sneering to mask his fear. "Careful, Rossi. This is Valentini property. Not yours to touch."
Adrian's smile didn't reach his eyes. "And yet you had your hands on her."
For a moment, the ballroom around them blurred—the laughter, the music, the clinking glasses. It was just Isabella, her wrist burning where Luca had touched her, and Adrian Rossi, whose stare felt like both salvation and a threat.
"Are you all right?" Adrian's voice softened when his eyes shifted to her.
Isabella nodded, though her pulse hammered. She should have walked away, thanked him and slipped back to her father's side. Instead, she lingered. She couldn't seem to look away from him.
He shouldn't have looked at her like that—like he saw through the silk and diamonds, through the cage her father built around her, straight into the restless heart she kept hidden.
Their connection was instant, electric.
And that terrified her.
Because she knew his name. Rossi. A rival. A danger.
Still, when Adrian offered his hand, she placed hers in it.
"Perhaps," he murmured, leaning close enough for her to catch the warmth of his breath, "the ballroom isn't safe after all."
A laugh caught in her throat—half amusement, half nerves. "And being near you is?"
He smiled faintly, almost wickedly. "Not at all."
For a fleeting second, she wondered what it would be like to let him pull her further into that danger. To step off the path her father forced upon her and into the shadows with the man whose gaze promised ruin.
But the spell shattered as her father's voice boomed across the hall, calling her name.
Isabella tore her hand from Adrian's and stepped back, breath quick.
Her father's dark eyes found her across the room—sharp, suspicious. She smoothed her gown, lifted her chin, and returned to his side, heart pounding as though she'd committed a crime.
Behind her, Adrian Rossi watched, his expression unreadable, though his mind burned with revelation.
Isabella Valentini ?
The daughter of the man who destroyed his family's empire.
And the girl whose touch already felt like fire in his veins.