The envelope sat on my kitchen table like it owned the room. Ivory paper, gold-embossed lettering, the kind of thing meant to be handled with silk gloves and trembling reverence.
I didn't own silk gloves. I didn't do reverence either.
I was already late for a client fitting, hair pinned messily, thread still clinging to my black jeans when I slit the envelope open with a pair of scissors. The letter inside smelled faintly of money, power, and something far more dangerous.
"On behalf of the International Haute Gala Committee, you have been selected to showcase your collection at this year's Milan Elite Gala, sponsored by Leone Enterprises."
My heart stopped. Then stuttered. Then did the stupid thing and tried to claw its way out of my ribcage.
The Milan Elite Gala wasn't just fashion's Olympus — it was a golden ticket, the difference between being a nobody sewing dresses in a rented studio and becoming a name the world whispered about. People killed for a slot on that runway.
And me? Serena Moretti? I'd just been invited.
I sank into the chair, staring at the words until they blurred. A laugh slipped out, half disbelieving, half terrified.
The universe must've been drunk.
Hours later, I stood outside the towering glass fortress that was Leone Enterprises' headquarters, clutching the invitation like it might vanish if I blinked too long. The building sliced into the sky, ruthless and gleaming, a monument to wealth and ambition.
My shoes clicked against marble as I stepped inside. Men in tailored suits and women dripping diamonds brushed past me, their perfume trailing power in the air.
This wasn't my world. My world was fabric scraps, coffee stains, a mother who worked herself sick just to keep us afloat.
But damn if I wasn't going to fake belonging here.
The gala itself was a fever dream. Crystal chandeliers spilled gold light over the ballroom, champagne flowed like water, and the air smelled of roses imported from God-knows-where. I stood backstage, palms sweaty, adjusting the final seam on my model's gown while the announcer's voice rolled through the room.
"And now, we welcome a bold new talent to the Milan Elite Gala — Serena Moretti."
Applause thundered.
I stepped into the spotlight, forcing my chin high. My dresses floated down the runway in a river of silk and rebellion — slits too daring, colors too sharp, lines that broke rules and spat on tradition.
And the crowd loved it. Gasps, whispers, phones snapping photos. I caught glimpses of wide eyes and parted lips, the kind of reactions designers lived for.
Then my gaze snagged on him.
Front row. Unmoved.
A man in a perfectly cut black suit, posture carved out of stone, eyes so dark they swallowed the light. He didn't clap, didn't blink. Just watched me, as if he knew something about me I didn't want anyone to know.
Something about the weight of that stare made my lungs forget their job.
I turned away, forcing my attention back to the models. But I felt it — his eyes never leaving, pinning me in place like a moth under glass.
When the final dress disappeared into the wings and the applause swallowed the room, I exhaled for the first time in minutes. My knees almost buckled.
Backstage, my assistant squealed, "Serena, they loved it! You did it!"
Did I?
Because all I could think about was that man's stare. Cold. Calculating. Familiar in a way that scraped at something buried deep in me.
Later, in the chaos of interviews and congratulations, an usher slipped me a folded card. No name, just a heavy black seal.
"A lion never ignores beauty, even if it comes from his enemy's bloodline."
My throat tightened.
Nobody here knew about my father. Nobody was supposed to.
I crumpled the card, shoving it deep into my clutch. Whoever wrote that knew too much.
I didn't see him again until the afterparty, when the ballroom thinned of reporters and only power remained. The champagne was stronger now, the music lower, laughter edged with secrets.
And there he was. Standing at the bar, glass of whiskey in hand, surrounded by men who deferred to him like he was some kind of king.
He turned his head, as if sensing me. And when our eyes locked again, I felt it — that same paralysis.
He started walking toward me. Each step measured, unhurried, inevitable. Like a predator closing the distance.
"Serena Moretti," he said when he finally stood before me. His voice was low, rich, the kind of sound that could command a room or destroy it. "You wear defiance well."
I straightened, swallowing the unease clawing at my throat. "Do I know you?"
"Not yet." He smiled — if you could call that curved blade of a mouth a smile. "But you will."
His gaze lingered, sharp as a scalpel. "Your designs are… reckless. Bold. Almost as reckless as carrying the Moretti name in my city."
Ice water shot through my veins. "What do you know about my name?"
"Everything," he said simply.
I forced my chin higher. "Then you know I don't belong to that world. I made myself."
"Mm." He sipped his drink, eyes never leaving mine. "We'll see how long that lasts."
Before I could demand what the hell that meant, he leaned in — close enough that I caught the faint scent of smoke and cedar. Close enough that for one dizzy second, my pulse betrayed me.
"I'll be in touch, Serena," he murmured, voice brushing my ear like a promise. "Leone Enterprises doesn't ignore talent… or bloodlines."
Then he walked away, leaving me breathless, furious, and shaking.
I had just met Dante Leone.
And somehow, I already knew he was going to ruin me.