"Her ex thought humiliating her would make him look powerful, but he never expected the feared man sitting nearby to have been watching her all along.

The Gold Coast Charity Gala was the crown jewel of Chicago’s high society, held inside the crystal-chandeliered ballroom of the Palmer House.

When the double doors opened, every conversation in the room ceased. The clinking of crystal flutes died instantly.

I walked into the ballroom on Vincent DeLuca’s arm, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

For the first time in my life, I wasn't hiding. Vincent had brought in an elite Italian stylist who had discarded every shapeless black dress I owned. Instead, I wore an emerald-green silk velvet gown cut specifically for my hourglass figure. It hugged my full hips, nipped tightly at my waist, and scooped low across my décolletage, displaying smooth, glowing skin. My dark hair fell in soft, Old Hollywood waves around my shoulders, and around my throat rested the DeLuca family heirloom—a vintage platinum choker encrusted with forty carats of emeralds and diamonds.

Beside me, Vincent was breathtaking in a midnight-black custom tuxedo. But he didn't look at the crowd. His hand rested firmly against the small of my back, guiding me with absolute ownership and pride.

“Breathe, *mia cara*,” Vincent murmured in my ear, his breath sending a shiver down my spine. “You own this room. They are looking at you because you are magnificent.”

Across the room, standing near the champagne fountain, was Tyler.

He looked pale, a pristine white cast encasing his left wrist. Standing beside him was Vanessa, draped in an ultra-skinny silver metallic gown that looked like tinfoil compared to the lush velvet I wore. Vanessa’s mouth hung slightly open in disbelief, while Tyler’s eyes were bloodshot, his jaw slacked in utter shock.

He had expected me to show up crying, hiding, broken.

Instead, I looked like a queen standing beside an emperor.

“Mr. DeLuca!”

A swarm of society reporters and photographers rushed forward, flashbulbs exploding in blinding white bursts.

“Mr. DeLuca, is this the woman from the viral video at L’Aura?” a woman with a microphone yelled. “Are the rumors true? Are you officially together?”

Vincent stopped, turning toward the cameras. He didn't avoid the press. He pulled me closer, wrapping his arm firmly around my waist until my hip was pressed flush against his thigh.

“This is Emily Vance,” Vincent announced, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the elite crowd with chilling authority. “She is not a rumor. She is the woman who holds my attention. And anyone who disrespects her will answer directly to me.”

Gasps rippled through the socialites. In the back, Tyler looked like he had just swallowed poison.

A moment later, the orchestra began to play a slow, sweeping waltz.

Vincent turned to me, bowing slightly, offering his hand. “Dance with me.”

“Vincent, I don’t know how to waltz,” I whispered frantically under my breath. “I’ll step on your feet. Everyone is watching.”

“Let them watch,” he replied with a faint, devastating smile. “Follow my lead. I will not let you fall.”

He pulled me onto the dance floor. The surrounding couples parted like the Red Sea, clearing the center marble for us.

When Vincent’s large hand settled warmly against my waist and my hand found his broad shoulder, the rest of the room blurred. He moved with effortless grace, guiding my steps with subtle shifts of his weight. Every time he spun me, the silk velvet of my gown swirled against his legs, creating an electric friction between us.

“You’re doing beautifully,” Vincent whispered, his eyes locked onto mine with a hunger that was impossible to fake.

“You’re good at this,” I breathed, feeling dizzy from the proximity, from the scent of his cologne, from the way his gaze made me feel completely seen.

“I am good at protecting what is mine,” he murmured.

Halfway through the evening, Vincent stepped away to take an urgent call regarding a shipping disruption in the harbor. I took the opportunity to slip toward the balcony terrace to get a breath of fresh, cold air, my cheeks flushed from the wine and the intensity of Vincent’s gaze.

The heavy French doors closed behind me, muffling the music.

“Enjoying the rented jewelry, piggy?”

A voice sneered from the shadows of the terrace.

I turned sharply. Tyler stood there, clutching a glass of straight bourbon in his good hand, his eyes wild with drunken venom.

“Tyler,” I said coldly, standing tall. “Stay away from me.”

“Or what? Your fake mob boyfriend will break my other arm?” Tyler laughed bitterly, stumbling forward. “You really think he wants you? Look at yourself, Emily! You’ve got forty extra pounds on every woman in that ballroom. You’re a waitress! A nobody! He’s using you as a publicity stunt to clean up his blood-soaked image!”

He cornered me against the stone balustrade, his breath reeking of alcohol.

“You belong to me, Emily. For three years, I owned you. I took your virginity, I paid for your cheap meals, I tolerated your pathetic crying. You think putting on a fancy dress makes you royalty? At the end of the night, you’re still the fat girl who wasn’t good enough for me!”

He raised his hand, reaching out to tear the emerald choker from my neck.

Before Tyler’s fingers could graze the platinum, a shadow engulfed the terrace.