The dress arrived at four in the afternoon inside a black garment bag carried by two women who looked emotionally unavailable enough to work for Lucien voluntarily.

Ivy stared at them from the bedroom doorway.

“No.”

One of the women blinked politely.

“Mr. Moretti requested your measurements.”

“That sentence is a human rights violation.”

The second woman unzipped the garment bag slowly.

Black silk spilled into the room like liquid midnight.

Oh.

Oh, that was unfair.

Ivy stepped closer despite herself.

Floor-length.

Backless.

Elegant enough to make tax fraud feel sophisticated.

The first stylist smiled faintly.

“He selected it personally.”

Silence.

Ivy looked at the dress again.

Then immediately became suspicious.

“Why does that feel emotionally threatening?”

—

By seven thirty, the mansion transformed into controlled chaos.

Guards moved constantly through the halls. Phones rang. Drivers waited outside with engines running beneath cold rain.

And downstairs—

Lucien Moretti stood in a black tuxedo adjusting silver cufflinks while half the staff quietly forgot how breathing worked.

Including Ivy.

Unfortunately.

She stopped halfway down the staircase.

Big mistake.

Lucien looked up immediately.

And went completely still.

The foyer fell silent around them.

Ivy suddenly understood why magazines described men as dangerous.

Black silk wrapped tightly around her waist before falling clean to the floor. Her hair curled softly over one shoulder. Gold earrings caught chandelier light every time she moved.

But it was Lucien’s face that made her pulse stumble.

Not cold.

Not controlled.

Ruined.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Matteo noticed too.

“Oh, he’s finished,” he muttered softly near the staircase.

Lucien ignored him completely.

His eyes stayed fixed on Ivy while she descended slowly toward the foyer.

The closer she got, the worse his expression became.

Not worse emotionally.

Worse for survival instincts.

“You’re staring again,” Ivy murmured quietly once she reached him.

Lucien looked down at her bare shoulders.

Then the open back of the dress.

Then finally back to her eyes.

“Yes.”

The honesty hit hard.

Matteo groaned dramatically somewhere behind them.

“This is disgusting. You two are becoming cinematic.”

Lucien extended one hand toward Ivy.

No words.

Just expectation.

Ivy placed her fingers into his automatically.

Another terrible instinct.

Lucien’s grip tightened slightly the second she touched him.

Tiny movement.

Still there.

The chandeliers reflected softly against black marble floors while rain tapped the mansion windows behind them.

“You clean up well,” Ivy said quietly.

Lucien’s thumb brushed once unconsciously against her knuckles.

“So do you.”

That low voice again.

The dangerous one.

Matteo walked past both of them toward the front doors.

“I’m leaving before one of you accidentally confesses something.”

“Matteo,” Lucien said flatly.

“See?” Matteo pointed dramatically. “Tone. That’s emotional panic tone.”

Ivy laughed softly before she could stop herself.

Lucien looked at her instantly.

And for one dangerous second—

his entire face softened.

Gone quickly.

Still there.

Matteo looked deeply offended.

“Oh, wow. He smiles at you now. I suffered twenty-seven years for that.”

Lucien guided Ivy toward the waiting car before she could answer.

One hand settled lightly against the bare skin of her back.

And immediately—

everything inside her nervous system malfunctioned.

His palm felt cold against warm skin.

Protective.

Possessive.

Entirely too aware of her.

Lucien noticed her sharp inhale instantly.

The pressure of his hand shifted slightly.

Not retreating.

Adjusting.

Like he was trying very hard to remember how gentle people worked.

The realization nearly killed her.

—

The gala occupied the top floor of a private Manhattan hotel glowing gold against rain-dark streets.

Money flooded every corner of the building.

Diamonds.

Champagne.

Politicians pretending not to recognize criminals.

Criminals pretending not to own politicians.

Ivy stepped out of the elevator beside Lucien and immediately whispered:

“Oh my God. Everybody here looks expensive and emotionally damaged.”

Lucien’s hand remained steady against her back.

“Stay close.”

“That sounded threateningly affectionate.”

“It was instruction.”

“Mm-hm.”

The ballroom went subtly quiet when Lucien entered.

Not fully silent.

Worse.

Attention shifted.

People noticed.

Women glanced toward him automatically.

Men straightened slightly.

Conversations slowed.

And then—

they noticed Ivy beside him.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Lucien guided her calmly through the ballroom while social elites parted around him instinctively.

Nobody blocked his path.

Nobody interrupted him first.

Predator rules.

A silver-haired senator greeted Lucien near the champagne tower.

“Moretti.”

Lucien shook his hand once.

“Senator.”

The senator’s eyes shifted toward Ivy immediately.

Surprise flickered there.

Real surprise.

“And who is this?”

Lucien looked toward Ivy briefly.

Only briefly.

Still enough to change the entire atmosphere around them.

“Ivy.”

Not girlfriend.

Not employee.

Not explanation.

Just Ivy.

The senator noticed the omission instantly.

So did everyone else nearby.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Ivy smiled politely.

“Professional emotional support.”

The senator blinked once.

Lucien’s fingers pressed slightly against her back.

Warning.

Amusement.

Both.

The senator laughed awkwardly.

Lucien didn’t.

Across the ballroom, whispers had already started.

Ivy caught pieces while they moved through the crowd.

“…never brings women…”

“…who is she…”

“…Moretti looks different…”

Different.

That word settled strangely inside her chest.

Lucien accepted champagne from a passing waiter without ever removing his hand from her back.

Always touching her tonight.

Small contact.

Constant contact.

Like reassurance worked both directions now.

Dangerous development.

A woman in emerald silk intercepted them near the dance floor.

Tall.

Beautiful.

The kind of beautiful built specifically to ruin marriages.

She kissed Lucien’s cheek lightly.

“Lucien.”

His expression remained polite.

Not warm.

“Camille.”

The woman’s eyes moved immediately toward Ivy.

Sharp.

Assessing.

Interesting.

“And this is?”

“Ivy.”

Again.

Only Ivy.

Camille smiled slowly.

“Oh.”

There it was again.

Recognition.

Everybody saw it.

Lucien’s weakness standing beside him in black silk and sarcasm.

Camille sipped champagne thoughtfully.

“You know,” she said lightly, “people are talking tonight.”

Lucien looked unimpressed.

“They always talk.”

“Yes,” Camille replied softly. “But usually not about you looking at someone like that.”

Silence.

The ballroom noise faded strangely around them.

Ivy’s pulse stumbled hard.

Lucien’s hand tightened once against her back.

Tiny movement.

Still there.

Camille noticed too.

And smiled knowingly before drifting back into the crowd.

Traitorous elegant woman.

Ivy looked up slowly at Lucien.

“You’re causing gossip.”

“You’re surprised?”

“You look terrifying. Usually terrifying people avoid romance allegations.”

Lucien’s gaze settled quietly on her face.

“Do I.”

Not a question.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

Music swelled softly across the ballroom while couples drifted slowly onto the dance floor beneath crystal chandeliers.

Lucien looked toward them briefly.

Then back at Ivy.

“Dance with me.”

The words landed low and calm.

Ivy blinked once.

“…That sounded less like a question and more like organized crime.”

“It was invitation.”

“You don’t invite people. You emotionally abduct them.”

Still—

she placed her hand into his.

Another terrible decision.

Lucien guided her onto the dance floor slowly while conversations around them visibly shifted.

People stared openly now.

The terrifying Lucien Moretti standing beneath ballroom lights with one hand against a woman’s bare back like touching her had become instinct.

Ivy’s heart beat painfully hard beneath the silk dress.

Lucien’s hand slid slightly higher along her back as they moved.

Cold fingers.

Steady pressure.

Possession disguised as dancing.

“You know everyone’s staring,” Ivy murmured softly.

“They stare at me anyway.”

“No,” she whispered. “They’re staring at you staring at me.”

That landed.

Lucien’s gaze sharpened slightly.

Then lowered toward her mouth.

Again.

Always again.

The dance slowed around them while rain streaked gold against ballroom windows high above Manhattan.

“You should stop doing that,” Ivy said quietly.

“What.”

“The looking.”

Lucien drew her slightly closer.

Not enough for scandal.

Enough for danger.

“I don’t think I can anymore.”

The honesty in the sentence nearly stopped her breathing.

And across the ballroom—

three politicians, two socialites, and one federal judge watched Lucien Moretti soften around a single girl in black silk like the entire world had tilted slightly off its axis.