The air was different tonight.
There was something decadent about the way Rome moved under moonlight—its shadows too smooth, its elegance too rehearsed. Rihanna had never felt more out of place in her heels, her subtle makeup, and her rented navy-blue gown. But her new colleagues insisted. "Just one gala! You're working under the luxury division now!" they had chirped like wind-up dolls.
The invitation was gold-embossed.
Aurelio International cordially invites you to the New Year's Private Gala. Dress code: Elegant. Attendance: Mandatory.
The hotel they chose was almost too pristine. Crystal chandeliers drooped like frozen tears above rich wooden floors. Gold trim traced every inch of the hall. Waiters in white gloves drifted between guests like ghosts with champagne.
Rihanna walked in, clutching her purse tighter. Her black curls were tied loosely, a few strands falling across her face. Her lips, tinted a bruised rose, trembled slightly—not from fear, but the sense that something about all this was too perfect.
"Miss Thompson?" A woman in red approached her with a clipboard and a gracious smile. Her cheekbones were high, eyes glacial. "Welcome to your first Aurelio gala. Right this way, please. The executive wing is waiting."
Executive?
Rihanna swallowed her confusion and followed, her heels tapping nervously against marble. She hadn't expected to be ushered past the main crowd.
She was led through a smaller corridor, toward a private lounge where the lighting was softer, more intimate. There was laughter, faint music, and murmured Italian conversations. Then—
"Ah. She's here," a voice purred.
Rihanna turned—and froze.
The woman who stepped forward was exquisite. Raven hair coiled into a sleek chignon, sharp collarbones accentuated by a white satin gown. Her lips curved like a blade drawn gently from its sheath.
"Bianca Russo," the woman said, extending a hand. "Creative Director. You must be Rihanna Thompson."
Rihanna shook her hand, instantly unnerved by the strength in Bianca's grip. Her smile never reached her eyes. It didn't need to. Those eyes weren't meant for warmth—they were for study. For power.
"I've heard good things," Bianca said coolly. "You're quite the wild card, aren't you?"
Rihanna blinked. "I—I don't know about that…"
Bianca leaned in. "Let me give you some advice, cara. In this city, appearances matter more than performance. Charm is everything. Intelligence is… secondary."
A soft, mocking laugh.
Before Rihanna could reply, the room shifted—someone new had entered.
A cold draft followed him.
Tall. Brooding. Tailored in black. A man with a presence like a loaded gun on silk sheets. His dark hair was slicked back, and he had a glass of whiskey in one hand, his gaze grazing the room until it landed—
On her.
Rihanna forgot how to breathe.
It was him.
She didn't know his name. But something inside her had already whispered it didn't matter.
His stare wasn't hungry. It was possessive. Like he'd just spotted his next indulgence.
Their eyes locked.
He didn't smile. He didn't blink.
He just lifted his glass in silent recognition.
"Lorenzo," Bianca said, a lightness in her voice that didn't match her eyes. "This is the new addition to your department. Rihanna Thompson."
Rihanna's lips parted slightly. He works here?
He walked forward slowly, then reached for her hand. His fingers brushed her knuckles, not with affection—but with dominance.
"Lorenzo Moretti," he said in a voice so low it felt like a sin. "Welcome to Rome."
The night twisted.
Rihanna barely remembered what happened between their introduction and the last toast of the evening. Champagne blurred the details, but Lorenzo's presence did something stronger.
He didn't hover. He watched. Like a hunter observing the pace of a new prey.
When Rihanna stepped out into the open balcony for air, she heard his footsteps behind her. Calm. Intentional.
"You don't belong in rooms like this," he said, standing beside her but never looking at her.
She turned toward him, confused. "What do you mean?"
His jaw flexed. "They'll eat you alive."
Her heart pounded. "And you?"
He smirked. Finally, he turned his face toward her—and the way he looked at her made something deep inside her shiver.
"I'm not part of the feast, cara mia. I set the table."
The music faded behind them. The stars above Rome didn't shine—they watched.
Bianca stood behind the sheer curtains inside the lounge, sipping wine, her head tilted.
She smiled—not kindly. Not even victoriously.
Just knowingly.
"Almost broken in," she whispered.