Chapter Eight – Masquerade of Lies
(Elena’s POV)
The crown pendant haunted me even when it was hidden away. Every time I opened my drawer, its dark jewels flashed like a reminder that I was already marked. Branded. His.
I wanted to believe that locking it away meant locking him out. But deep down, I knew better. Damian Rossi wasn’t the kind of man you could banish with wood and metal. He lingered in shadows, in silence, in my restless dreams.
And then the invitation arrived.
Mother handed it to me one evening, an elegant envelope embossed with the De Luca crest. “You’ll attend with us,” she said, her tone leaving no room for protest.
“The De Luca gala?” I asked, throat tightening.
She gave a short nod. “Everyone important will be there. Allies, potential investors. Your presence will be expected. Don’t embarrass your father.”
Of course. Nothing in this family was ever about choice. We existed as pieces on a chessboard, moved as Father saw fit.
But as I held the invitation in my hands, one thought drowned out all the others: Damian will be there.
The rumors were always the same—whispers of his looming presence at gatherings, the way entire rooms shifted when he entered. I told myself it didn’t matter. That I would avoid him. That if fate were cruel enough to put him in the same room again, I would hold my head high and pretend he didn’t exist.
But my heart knew better.
By the time the night of the gala arrived, I was shaking before we even left the house.
The De Luca estate glittered like something out of a fairy tale, though everyone inside knew it was built on blood. Chandeliers dripped crystal light across polished marble, violins played melodies too delicate for such a ruthless gathering, and diamonds sparkled on throats and wrists as though they weren’t soaked in sin.
I wore the scarlet gown Mother had chosen. My hair was twisted into a knot so tight it felt like armor, ruby earrings weighing heavily from my ears. I looked every inch the Moretti daughter—poised, untouchable, proud. But inside, I was crumbling.
Father’s hand pressed into my back as we entered. “Smile,” he ordered, his voice low but sharp.
So I did.
I smiled for the men in dark suits who shook my father’s hand. I smiled for the women who eyed me with envy, whispering behind jeweled fingers. I smiled for Sophia, who was already twirling across the floor with Marco, her fiancé, her laughter ringing like silver bells.
But none of it touched me.
Because the moment I stepped into the ballroom, I felt it.
That pull. That awareness. That shadow.
My chest tightened before my eyes even found him.
Damian Rossi.
He stood across the room, tall and unmovable, dressed in black tailored to perfection. He wasn’t surrounded by admirers or allies. He didn’t need them. He stood alone, radiating danger, sipping whiskey as though he were the only man in the room who truly belonged.
And his gaze was locked on me.
I nearly faltered mid-step. The smile froze on my lips, too brittle to be real. I turned my head quickly, pretending interest in the chandeliers, the violinists, anything but him.
But I felt him watching. Every step I took, every glance I tried to avoid—he followed me without moving, without blinking.
A wolf among peacocks.
⸻
“Elena!” Sophia’s voice broke the spell, and suddenly she was at my side, cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with wine and excitement. “Why are you standing here like a statue? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
I forced a laugh. “I’m fine.”
“Fine?” She grinned. “You’re in a room full of eligible men, and you’re hiding by the champagne table? Come, at least dance once before Father notices.”
Before I could argue, she was pulled away again by Marco, leaving me stranded, glass trembling in my hand.
And then I felt it.
The shift of air. The weight of someone behind me.
“Elena,” he murmured, his voice low, smooth, unmistakable.
My blood turned to fire. I spun, every nerve alight.
He was closer than I expected, his shadow falling over me, his eyes darker than the midnight he had invaded.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I whispered, though my throat was dry.
“Neither should you.”
I gripped the glass tighter. “You’re reckless. My father—”
“Your father’s too busy drowning in his own lies.” His lips curved slightly. “I’m not here for him.”
His meaning sank into me like a blade.
My breath caught. “You’ll start a war just by looking at me like this.”
He leaned closer, so close I caught the faint scent of smoke and leather clinging to his skin. “Let them see, Elena. Let them wonder why their precious princess can’t tear her eyes from the devil.”
My pulse raced dangerously. “Why?” I demanded. “Why me?”
For the briefest second, something flickered in his gaze. Pain. Memory. A scar beneath the steel. But just as quickly, it was gone.
“That’s not a story for tonight,” he said, voice low.
I wanted to scream at him, to demand answers. Instead, I stood frozen, my body betraying me with every rapid heartbeat.
“Elena!”
My father’s voice thundered across the ballroom, and I nearly dropped my glass. Damian stepped back, his expression smooth again, as if nothing had passed between us.
But just before he melted into the crowd, he leaned close enough for only me to hear.
“Save me a dance.”
And then he was gone.
The rest of the night blurred. I nodded through conversations, smiled when spoken to, all while my insides churned with his words.
Save me a dance.
The audacity. The arrogance. The way I wanted—needed—to say yes.
I avoided the dance floor as long as I could, pretending interest in the buffet, in the artwork lining the walls. But fate—or perhaps Damian himself—had other plans.
Because when the orchestra struck a slower tune, he appeared at my side again. Not asking. Not waiting.
His hand closed around mine, firm but not forceful.
“Dance with me,” he said.
“No,” I whispered, panic rising.
“Yes.”
Before I could resist, he led me to the center of the floor. Eyes turned. Whispers began. My father’s glare burned from across the room. But none of it mattered once Damian’s arm slid around my waist, pulling me into his orbit.
The world narrowed to the heat of his body, the steady strength of his hand guiding mine, the way his eyes consumed me whole.
“You’ll ruin me,” I whispered, trembling.
“Or save you,” he countered, his lips curving in the faintest, cruelest smile.
The violins swelled, and I realized too late—I wasn’t fighting him anymore.
I was dancing with the devil.
And worse, a part of me didn’t want it to end.














































