The mistake started with champagne.

Which, in Ivy’s defense, tasted expensive enough to impair judgment professionally.

By ten thirty, the ballroom glowed gold beneath crystal chandeliers while rain streaked softly across the city skyline outside. Music drifted low through the crowd. Politicians lied beautifully beside billionaires. Women in diamonds smiled like sharpened knives.

And Lucien—

Lucien had disappeared into conversation number forty-seven with three investors and a senator who looked embalmed.

Ivy stood near the balcony doors sipping champagne and watching him across the room.

Big mistake.

He looked devastating tonight.

Black tuxedo.

One hand tucked loosely into his pocket while the other held a whiskey glass low near his waist.

Calm.

Controlled.

Terrifyingly beautiful.

And every few minutes—

his eyes found her again through the crowd automatically.

Like breathing.

Like instinct.

The realization had already wrecked her once tonight.

Then Vincent Hale arrived.

“Oh,” he said smoothly beside her. “You’re the center of attention now.”

Ivy nearly choked on champagne.

“Jesus Christ.”

Hale smiled faintly.

“Not usually the reaction I inspire.”

“You’re a federal prosecutor. You inspire tax anxiety.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward Lucien across the ballroom.

Then back to her.

“You wore black.”

Ivy looked down at the dress.

“…Congratulations on identifying colors.”

“It suits you.”

“That sounded flirtier than legally appropriate.”

Hale laughed softly under his breath.

Dangerous man.

Not physically dangerous like Lucien.

Worse.

Observant.

His attention lingered too carefully on people.

Like conversations were autopsies.

“I’m surprised Moretti let you out of his sight tonight,” Hale said casually.

Ivy snorted immediately.

“See? Everybody keeps saying things like that.”

“Like what.”

“Like I’m his emotional support hostage.”

Hale’s mouth curved slightly.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

“And are you?”

Before Ivy could answer, movement across the ballroom caught her attention.

Lucien.

Still talking to the senator.

Still holding whiskey.

Still staring directly at Hale standing beside her.

The atmosphere shifted instantly.

Cold.

Sharp.

Interesting.

A terrible idea formed immediately inside Ivy’s brain.

Absolutely terrible.

Which meant she smiled.

“Oh no,” Hale murmured softly. “That expression means trouble.”

“You wanna dance?”

Silence.

Then Hale laughed outright.

“Are you trying to provoke Lucien Moretti?”

“Maybe a little.”

“That’s either brave or medically concerning.”

“Still yes?”

Hale looked across the ballroom toward Lucien again.

Then slowly offered his hand.

“Absolutely.”

Terrible.

Absolutely terrible decision.

The moment Hale’s hand touched hers—

Lucien went completely still across the room.

Ivy saw it instantly.

The senator beside him kept talking.

Lucien no longer listened.

Every bit of his attention locked directly onto Vincent Hale guiding Ivy onto the dance floor.

Oh.

That was immediate.

Very immediate.

The orchestra shifted into a slower song while couples moved gracefully beneath warm chandelier light.

Hale placed one hand lightly against Ivy’s waist.

Professional distance.

Respectful.

Still—

Lucien’s expression darkened instantly across the ballroom.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Hale murmured quietly.

“His face is fascinating right now.”

“You realize he looks seconds away from felony charges.”

Ivy glanced toward Lucien again.

Big mistake.

He was still standing beside the senator.

Except now the whiskey glass in his hand looked dangerously close to breaking.

The senator followed Lucien’s gaze slowly.

Then noticed Ivy dancing with Hale.

And immediately stepped backward.

Smart man.

Hale guided Ivy smoothly across the ballroom.

“You know,” he said conversationally, “I’ve prosecuted cartel leaders less territorial than him.”

“He’s not territorial.”

Hale looked deeply unconvinced.

“Ivy.”

“What.”

“He’s staring at me like I shot his dog.”

“He doesn’t own a dog.”

“That’s not the important part of the sentence.”

Ivy tried very hard not to laugh.

Failed slightly.

Across the ballroom, Lucien finally handed his whiskey glass to a passing waiter without looking away from them.

Uh oh.

Major uh oh.

Hale noticed too.

“Oh,” he murmured softly. “We’ve escalated.”

“You sound delighted.”

“I enjoy observing behavioral collapse.”

“That is the most prosecutor sentence I’ve ever heard.”

Lucien started walking toward them.

The crowd reacted instinctively.

People moved aside before he reached them.

Nobody blocked his path.

Nobody interrupted him.

The air itself seemed to clear around him.

Hale sighed softly.

“And here comes organized crime in formalwear.”

Ivy’s pulse immediately forgot how to function properly.

Lucien stopped directly beside them.

Too close.

Way too close.

His expression remained perfectly calm.

That was the terrifying part.

“Ivy,” he said quietly.

No greeting.

No acknowledgment of Hale.

Only Ivy.

Hale smiled faintly beside her.

“Lucien.”

Lucien looked at him now.

And the ballroom temperature dropped ten degrees instantly.

“Enjoying yourself?” Hale asked lightly.

“No.”

The answer came immediate.

Sharp.

Honest.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Ivy crossed her arms slightly.

“Oh my God.”

Lucien’s eyes flicked toward her instantly.

“What.”

“You’re jealous in public now.”

The silence afterward nearly killed three nearby socialites.

Hale looked openly entertained.

Lucien stepped closer.

His hand settled low against Ivy’s bare back again.

Possessive.

Cold fingers against warm skin.

The contact sent heat sharply up her spine.

“Ivy,” Lucien repeated quietly. “We’re leaving.”

Hale lifted one brow.

“She seems comfortable here.”

Lucien didn’t look away from Ivy.

“She isn’t.”

“I can answer for myself.”

“No,” Lucien said calmly. “Right now, you absolutely cannot.”

That should not have been attractive.

At all.

The realization deeply offended her.

Hale noticed everything.

Of course he did.

The prosecutor’s gaze shifted slowly between both of them while realization sharpened behind his eyes.

Then softly:

“You really are losing control over this.”

The words landed like a knife.

Lucien’s jaw flexed once.

Tiny movement.

Still dangerous.

“I would advise,” Hale continued pleasantly, “against making emotional decisions in rooms full of witnesses.”

The ballroom had gone suspiciously quiet around them.

People absolutely listened now.

Fantastic.

Absolutely fantastic.

Lucien’s fingers tightened slightly against Ivy’s back.

Not painful.

Possessive.

The kind of touch that said mine without using language.

Hale saw that too.

And smiled.

There it was.

The deliberate provoking.

Two predators circling each other while Ivy stood trapped directly between them in black silk and increasingly poor life choices.

“I think,” Hale said smoothly, “Miss Bennett enjoys having choices.”

Lucien finally looked at him fully.

The tension between both men turned sharp enough to cut skin.

“You should stop talking now.”

The softness in Lucien’s voice terrified three nearby politicians immediately.

Hale remained relaxed.

“Or what.”

Silence.

Real silence.

Ivy realized suddenly—

this had stopped being jealousy.

This was becoming something worse.

Something dangerous.

Lucien looked one second away from starting a war in the middle of a Manhattan ballroom.

Over her.

The realization hit hard enough to sober her instantly.

“Okay,” Ivy interrupted quickly. “Great. Everybody’s emotionally unstable. Fun event. We’re done now.”

Neither man looked away from each other.

Excellent.

Fantastic.

Lucien’s hand slid fully around her waist then.

Firm.

Decisive.

And before Ivy could argue—

he pulled her against his side and started walking.

Dragging, technically.

The ballroom parted instantly around them.

“I can walk myself!” Ivy hissed.

“Apparently not.”

“That was one dance.”

“With Vincent Hale.”

“You sound insane.”

Lucien looked down at her sharply while guiding her toward the exit.

“You danced with a federal prosecutor to provoke me.”

“…Okay, wow. When you say it out loud, it loses whimsy.”

Behind them, Hale laughed softly into his champagne glass.

And across the ballroom—

every social elite in Manhattan watched Lucien Moretti drag one girl out of a gala like the entire city had just witnessed the beginning of something catastrophic.