The chandeliers shimmered with liquid gold, their light scattering across crystal glasses and polished marble floors. Music danced through the air like silk—soft violins, gentle laughter, the sound of wealth pretending to be effortless. The Bellamy ballroom gleamed like a stage for royalty, but beneath its glow, secrets stirred like shadows.
Aria Bellamy stood near the refreshment table, her sapphire gown glowing faintly under the light. The fabric moved with her like a ripple of water, every fold perfectly placed, every detail carefully chosen. Her hair fell over her shoulders in soft waves, catching hints of silver from the chandeliers above. She smiled when people greeted her, the kind of polite smile that belonged to someone trained to keep her emotions locked away.
She had done everything right tonight. Perfect poise. Perfect conversation. Perfect disguise.
But deep inside, her pulse hadn't calmed since she'd seen him.
Luca Moretti.
Every time she caught a glimpse of him across the ballroom, it felt like her world tilted slightly off its axis. He wasn't supposed to have this effect on her—not when their families were at war, not when his name carried the same weight as danger. But he did. He always did.
James, her childhood friend and companion for the night, leaned closer with a warm smile. "You're quiet again," he said softly, his voice barely rising above the music. "Everything okay?"
Aria forced her lips to curve. "Of course. I'm just thinking."
"About him?"
Her eyes flickered toward Luca's direction before she quickly looked away. "No. About… the event. My father expects perfection."
James gave a small, knowing look but said nothing. He didn't need to. The truth hung quietly between them.
And then came the voice that broke the stillness.
"Well, if it isn't the famous Bellamy daughter," Bianca said sweetly, the words dipped in venom disguised as sugar.
Aria turned slowly, keeping her composure. Bianca Rossi stood before her in a gown of gold sequins that shimmered too much, her perfect smile stretched just a bit too wide. Her manicured fingers held a glass of red wine, and her perfume lingered heavily in the air.
"Miss Rossi," Aria greeted politely, though she already knew what was coming.
"I must say," Bianca began, tilting her head, "you do have a remarkable sense of style. That gown is lovely. It's bold to wear blue at an event hosted by your family. Most people would avoid blending in with the decor."
Aria gave a faint smile. "Perhaps most people are too worried about matching the crowd."
A small ripple of laughter passed through the people nearby. Bianca's expression faltered, but she recovered fast, stepping a little closer. "Confidence suits you," she said, lowering her voice. "Let's hope it holds when your family's deals start to crumble. The market's unpredictable lately… isn't it?"
The message beneath the words was clear. It wasn't gossip—it was a threat, a reminder that the Moretti name could undo the Bellamys with a single decision.
Still, Aria stood her ground, lifting her chin. "Reputation is like character, Bianca. It's not something that fades when things get difficult."
That calm reply, elegant and cutting, made Bianca's smile stiffen. Around them, whispers began to stir, drawn to the tension like moths to a flame. Aria didn't flinch. She'd been trained for moments like this—to stand tall, to never show weakness.
But Bianca wasn't the kind to lose quietly.
As a waiter passed by, Bianca reached for a fresh glass of wine, her hand trembling slightly from contained anger. In that tiny moment of rage, her grip slipped—or maybe it didn't. Maybe she let it slip on purpose.
The glass tilted.
A streak of red spilled through the air like blood through water, landing squarely across Aria's sapphire gown.
Gasps filled the room.
The sound of the orchestra faltered. Heads turned. The laughter and chatter vanished, replaced by stunned silence. The rich crimson liquid dripped down her gown, soaking into the silk like a slow, cruel wound.
Bianca's lips parted in feigned horror. "Oh no," she gasped, "I'm so sorry! My hand— it just slipped!"
Aria's chest tightened. She could feel dozens of eyes burning into her. For a moment, she wanted to vanish. But she didn't. She stood perfectly still, refusing to give Bianca the pleasure of seeing her flinch. Slowly, she set her empty glass down on the nearest tray and met Bianca's eyes.
"It's fine," Aria said calmly, though her voice trembled just slightly. "Accidents happen."
Her grace made Bianca falter—but only for a second. "You're very forgiving," Bianca murmured with a smirk. "I would have been devastated if that happened to me."
And then, from across the room, Luca moved.
He had seen everything—the exchange, the smirk, the wine, the silent cruelty. His jaw clenched as he walked forward, each step deliberate, the crowd parting instinctively to let him through. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Bianca's smug expression flickered when she saw him.
"Luca," she began with a nervous laugh, "it was an accident, I swear—"
The sound that followed silenced the room.
It wasn't loud, but it was sharp. A clean, controlled slap that landed with precision. Not out of rage, but out of pure, unfiltered authority.
Bianca froze, her cheek turning pale. For a heartbeat, even the chandeliers seemed to stop glowing.
"You humiliated her," Luca said quietly, his voice steady and cold. "Apologize."
Her eyes widened in disbelief. "You hit me? For her?"
Luca's tone never changed. "Apologize."
Bianca's pride wavered. The stares from the crowd, the quiet judgment, the pity—it was unbearable. Her throat tightened as tears welled up. "I didn't mean to—"
"Apologize," he repeated.
The word landed like a command, leaving no room for argument.
Bianca's lips trembled. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Aria, I'm sorry."
Aria didn't know what to say. She had never seen him like this—not the calm businessman, not the cold strategist—but someone raw, protective, almost furious. Her heart was pounding, every beat louder than the next.
"Are you alright?" he asked her softly, ignoring the watching eyes.
"I…" she hesitated, looking down at the ruined gown. "I'll live."
A small, unintended smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "That's not the answer I wanted."
She met his eyes, and for a moment, everything else disappeared. The room, the whispers, the shock—none of it mattered.
Bianca turned and stormed away, her heels clicking against the marble like a retreat. The crowd parted in silence, and when the doors shut behind her, the orchestra began to play again, tentatively at first, as if unsure if it was allowed.
Luca took a step back, giving Aria space. "I'm sorry you had to go through that," he said quietly.
She looked at him for a long moment. "You didn't have to do that, Luca. It will cause trouble for you."
"Maybe," he said, his voice low. "But it was worth it."
Their eyes held, something unspoken thrumming between them—something dangerous, magnetic, and impossible to deny.
Then James appeared beside her, slipping off his jacket and gently placing it over her shoulders. "We're leaving," he said firmly, glaring at Luca without saying his name.
Aria hesitated before nodding. As she walked away, she turned once more, her gaze meeting Luca's from across the room. His expression was unreadable, his hands in his pockets, his eyes burning quietly through the distance.
He had just drawn a line between himself and Bianca's world.
And without realizing it, he had stepped into Aria's.