CHAPTER 3

**Chapter 3** **Sera’s POV** Three weeks later, I walked into a ballroom full of people who would smile while they planned your funeral. The dress was black this time. High neck. Long sleeves. Elegant enough to blend in, cut close enough that I could still move if I needed to. My hair was pulled back in a clean knot. No red. No distractions. No soft edges. Tonight I was not Isabelle. Tonight I was simply another expensive guest at an even more expensive charity gala, the kind of event where politicians and criminals drank the same champagne and pretended not to recognize each other. My date’s hand rested lightly on my arm. Lila looked like she belonged here—soft gold dress, easy smile, the kind of polished beauty that made men underestimate her and women want to be her. She had no idea I was working. She thought this was a date. I let her believe it. It was useful cover, and she was good company when I allowed myself to have any. She laughed easily, touched my arm when she spoke, and smelled like expensive perfume and something warmer underneath. Under different circumstances, I might have let the night end differently. Tonight was not different circumstances. “You’re quiet,” Lila murmured, leaning in close enough that her shoulder brushed mine. “I’m always quiet.” She smiled, soft and knowing. “That’s what I like about you.” I almost returned it. Almost. Then I felt it. That shift in the air. The quiet pressure of a predator who had already found his prey. I turned my head and met Dante Moretti’s eyes across the ballroom. He stood near the base of the grand staircase, black tuxedo perfectly tailored, expression unreadable. A glass of something amber dangled from his fingers, untouched. He didn’t look surprised to see me. He looked like a man who had been waiting. Like the last three weeks had been nothing more than a pause he had allowed me to take. My pulse stayed steady only through years of practice. Lila followed my gaze. “Do you know him?” “No,” I said. It wasn’t entirely a lie. I knew the shape of his mouth. The taste of his blood. The exact sound he made when he lost control. I knew the weight of his body and the way his hands felt when they stopped being careful. I did not know the man who stood there now, perfectly composed, watching me like he already owned the ending of this night. The crowd shifted between us. Laughter rose. A string quartet played something elegant and forgettable. None of it touched the cold focus that had settled over me. I needed space. “I’ll be right back,” I told Lila, and slipped away before she could ask questions. The restroom on the second floor was quiet—all white marble, soft gold lighting, and the faint scent of expensive soap. I turned on the cold water and let it run over my wrists, forcing my breathing to stay even. Three weeks. I had changed safe houses twice. I had taken two other jobs and finished both cleanly. I had slept with a gun within reach and woken up listening for footsteps that never came. I had almost convinced myself that the night in his suite had been a controlled burn—something I could walk away from without consequences. I was wrong. The door opened behind me. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. Dante stepped inside and locked the door with a soft, deliberate click. The sound was quiet. Final. He didn’t rush. He never rushed. He simply walked in like the room already belonged to him and stopped a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching me in the mirror. Our eyes met in the glass. For a long moment neither of us spoke. The air between us felt too small, charged with everything we had done to each other and everything left unfinished. I could still remember the way he had pinned me down. The way I had bitten him. The way we had fought for control until neither of us cared who won as long as we didn’t stop. “You’re hard to find,” he said finally. His voice was the same—low, controlled, edged with something darker. “That’s the idea.” He walked closer, unhurried, until he stood behind me. In the mirror I watched his gaze drop to the side of my neck—where his teeth had left a mark that had only just faded. Something possessive and unreadable moved through his expression. “You jumped,” he said. “You locked the door.” A faint, humorless smile touched his mouth. “I underestimated you.” “Most people do.” “I’m not most people.” I turned to face him. The marble counter pressed against my lower back. He was close enough that I could smell his cologne, close enough that the memory of his hands on me rose uninvited and unwelcome. Up close, he looked exactly as dangerous as he had three weeks ago—only more contained. Like whatever I had pulled out of him that night had been locked back down beneath expensive fabric and perfect control. “What do you want, Dante?” “A deal.” I raised an eyebrow. “You followed me into a restroom to make a business proposal?” “Yes.” He reached into his jacket and placed a folded document on the counter beside me. The paper looked expensive. Thick. Official. He set a pen on top of it with the same calm precision he did everything else. “What’s this?” “A marriage contract,” he said. “Six months. You live under my roof. You appear at my side when required. In return, I pay you enough money to disappear for the rest of your life when it’s over… and I keep the people currently hunting you from finishing the job.” I stared at him. For a second the words didn’t fully land. Then they did, cold and sharp. “You’re serious.” “I don’t make jokes.” “Why?” His eyes held mine, dark and steady. There was no softness in them. No false romance. Just calculation and something harder underneath. “Because the men who hired you to kill Lang have decided you know too much,” he said. “They put a price on you large enough to attract people even you might not see coming. You’ve changed locations. You’ve been careful. It won’t be enough. Eventually someone better or hungrier than the last ones will find you.” He paused. “You can keep running. Or you can stand under my name for six months and let them understand that touching you means touching me.” I laughed once, sharp and cold. “And the marriage part?” “I need a wife,” he said simply. “Publicly. There are political reasons that don’t concern you. You need protection. This solves both problems cleanly.” “You could hire security.” “Security can be bought. My name cannot.” Silence stretched between us. Somewhere beyond the door, music swelled and people laughed, completely unaware that two predators were negotiating terms in a locked restroom over the price of a life. I glanced down at the contract, then back up at him. “And if I say no?” Dante’s expression didn’t change. “Then you walk out of here and take your chances. I won’t stop you.” He paused, eyes holding mine. “But I won’t save you either.” The words landed with quiet finality. I studied him—the perfect tuxedo, the calm voice, the man who had pinned me down and bitten me and come inside me three weeks ago, now offering me a contract like it was just another acquisition. There was no heat in his face now. No leftover want. Just cold, practical clarity. My pulse was steady. My mind was not. Because the worst part wasn’t that he was dangerous. The worst part was that some cold, practical part of me was already calculating the odds… and realizing he might be right. I reached out and picked up the pen. I didn’t sign it. Not yet. I simply turned it once between my fingers, feeling the weight of it, and looked at him over the top of the contract. “If I do this,” I said quietly, “I don’t belong to you.” Dante’s mouth curved, slow and sharp. “Then I suppose,” he said, “we’ll both have to be very careful not to forget that.”