Chapter 4 - Entering the Lion’s Den
The grand ballroom of the Hawthorne Hotel was a suffocating sea of crystal chandeliers, floating white garden roses—which I had spent twelve hours arranging two days ago—and hundred-dollar-a-plate corporate guilt.
As Dante pushed the heavy mahogany doors open, the ambient roar of a hundred chattering socialites seemed to drop a full octave.
It wasn't because of me.
It was because of him.
The moment Dante Moretti stepped onto the parquet floor, the room adjusted its gravity. Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the rows of tables like wind through high grass. I felt every eye in the room shift from the tiered centerpieces to the two of us standing in the archway.
My mother, resplendent in navy silk and diamond earrings, froze mid-sentence at Table Four.
Beside her sat Bennett Hale—tall, perfectly coiffed, wearing an expensive tailored suit that whispered corporate mediocrity. And right next to him, draped in cream-colored lace and smiling like a cat that had swallowed the canary, was Celeste Waverly.
My fingers, resting lightly on Dante’s forearm, instinctively tightened.
Dante felt the shift in my weight. Without breaking his stride, he covered my hand with his own, his large, warm palm steadying me completely.
“Breathe, Marin,” he murmured, his voice low and close to my ear. “You’re the most dangerous person in this room. Act like it.”
We walked down the center aisle, the eyes of fifty relatives and hometown acquaintances tracking our every step. My mother’s face had gone from a pleasant social smile to a mask of absolute, unadulterated shock.
Bennett dropped his champagne flute. It didn't shatter—it landed softly on a linen-covered table—but the liquid spilled across the white tablecloth like a spreading stain.
“Marin?” Bennett stammered, standing up so fast his chair screeched against the floor. “What... who is...?”
Dante stopped three feet from their table, his posture relaxed, his gray-blue eyes fixed entirely on Bennett with the chilling detachment of a predator sizing up a stray dog.
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“Dante Moretti,” he said, extending a hand that Bennett looked at as if it were a live grenade. “And you must be the man who let her walk away.”
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