Chapter 3 - The Crimson Armor
The Grandon Hotel ballroom was a cathedral of manufactured opulence. Crystal chandeliers, imported directly from Venice, cast a glittering amber glow over thousands of dollars worth of orchids imported from South America. New York’s high society milled about in custom Armani tuxedos and haute couture gowns, sipping champagne that cost more than a month of groceries in the outer boroughs.
Liam stood near the eastern pillar of the room, adjusting his cuffs with practiced arrogance. He wore a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo that Luna had helped him pick out, paid for with a credit card she practically managed.
Beside him, Amber was practically vibrating with self-importance. She wore a skin-tight emerald gown that clung to her frame like wet paint, her blonde hair styled in cascading Hollywood waves. She was scanning the room like a predator in a high-end enclosure, soaking in the admiring glances of wealthy older men who assumed she was arm candy for rising Wall Street royalty.
"Look at them," Amber murmured, nudging Liam’s ribs. "Everyone’s looking at us. They know we belong here."
"Of course they do," Liam scoffed, taking a sip of scotch. "My father’s table is right over there. Once the speeches start, I'm going to introduce you to him properly. Show him what a real partner looks like."
Across the room, Valentina Rossi—Liam’s mother—sat at the VIP round table directly beneath the stage, wearing a choker of Burmese rubies that could have funded a small hospital. She looked bored, her aristocratic face carved from stone as she ignored the sycophants hovering around her chair.
Then, the heavy mahogany doors at the back of the grand ballroom swung open.
The ambient chatter didn't stop immediately. It stuttered, then died away in jagged ripples, starting near the entrance and spreading like a wave across the room until the entire hall fell into a stunned, breathless hush.
All eyes turned toward the threshold.
A woman stood in the doorway, framed by the amber light of the lobby.
She wore a backless crimson silk gown that cut a sharp, dramatic silhouette against the white marble floor. The fabric hugged her waist like liquid fire before cascading down into a subtle, elegant train. Her dark hair was swept up into a severe, immaculate chignon, leaving her long neck exposed. But it wasn't the dress that silenced the room.
It was her posture. It was the absolute, unyielding sovereignty in her gaze.
Luna Vane didn't look like a heartbroken woman seeking solace. She looked like a queen inspecting a conquered province.
Liam’s glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the marble floor with a sharp, explosive crack. The amber liquid splattered across his polished Italian leather shoes, but he didn't even notice. His face went the color of curdled milk.
"What... what is she doing here?" Liam choked out, his hands trembling.
Amber’s smug smile vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated horror. "That dress... that’s custom Dior. Where did she get the money for that? Who brought her?"
Before Liam could answer, the murmurs surged again, louder this time, turning into a wave of astounded whispers.
Because from the VIP table near the stage, a figure had risen.
Nico Rossi.
The silver-haired billionaire, a man legendary for his cold detachment and refusal to suffer fools, set his crystal tumbler down on the white linen tablecloth. He ignored the senator trying to catch his eye. He ignored the board members calling his name.
May you like
Nico turned his head, his sharp, storm-gray eyes locking onto the crimson-clad figure standing at the entrance.
And then, to the absolute astonishment of every person in the room, Nico Rossi began to walk.
