Camille adjusted the strap of her dress as she stepped into the grand hall, the chandeliers spilling light over polished floors and glittering gowns.
A hush followed her, subtle but present, like the air itself recognized she was walking into a room she didn't just occupy she owned it.
Dante's hand on her lower back was steady, firm, yet guiding.
The heat radiating from him made her pulse stutter every time he shifted, every time their bodies brushed as they moved forward.
"Stay close," he murmured, voice low and deliberate.
"Remember, we're a team tonight. Everyone's watching."
Camille glanced at him, eyebrow raised. "Team?"
He smirked. "Don't pretend you don't know what that means."
The whispers started almost immediately. Heads turned.
Conversations paused mid-sentence. Socialites who had spent months assuming Camille was fragile suddenly noticed the fire she carried.
And Dante… well, he watched her like a hawk. Protective. Assessing. Claiming.
