The car Dante had sent was already waiting outside when Anastasia stepped out of the elevator. Sleek, black, and completely excessive, it reeked of him. She sighed, smoothing the creases of her blouse before climbing in. She hadn't wanted his help. But of course, Dante never asked—he simply made decisions and expected the world to fall in line. He walked to the parking lot, sliding into the one they came with before driving away .
The driver, dressed in a tailored suit, said nothing as he handed the keys to her . Anastasia slid in as the car glided through the streets toward the Dupont estate. Sitting behind the steering wheel, her thoughts a mess of the past few days: Her father's company nearly being snatched , the whirlwind of press about her and Dante's engagement, and tonight—the dreaded gala.
When the car pulled up to the Dupont estate, Caroline was already outside. She stood with a Louis Vuitton duffel tossed over her shoulder and two enormous suitcases beside her, dressed in a designer tracksuit and oversized sunglasses like she was heading for a dramatic reality show escape.
"Finally!" Caroline huffed as she threw the car door open and climbed in. "I thought I was going to die of boredom waiting on your overly punctual billionaire fiancé's car."
"You're the one who insisted on leaving without a plan," Anastasia muttered, getting down to help her in . Caroline slid into the passenger seat.
"Details." Caroline waved a hand, her nails freshly done. "I told Father I was moving out, and I meant it. But now we have a small problem."
"Which is?"
"I have absolutely nowhere to go."
Anastasia blinked. "You what?"
"I packed my bags, screamed something theatrical about oppression and arranged marriage, and left. I didn't exactly map out what came next."
Anastasia groaned. "Okay. Maybe you should come stay at the Laurent estate—my mom and grandfather wouldn't mind. And I don't think your dad would try anything."
"No," Caroline cut her off firmly. "If your family shelters me, it might give my father an excuse to retaliate. He's furious, Stassi. The Laurents are already under scrutiny because of your engagement to the infamous Dante Alexander Montgomery. I can't drag them into my rebellion."
Anastasia frowned but didn't press. She knew Caroline well enough to understand her loyalty beneath the drama.
"Luckily," Caroline continued with a smug grin, "I remembered I have a black card my father gave me for emergencies—the one I almost never use."
"How convenient."
"Oh, it gets better. I called ahead and found a furnished luxury apartment uptown—temporary, of course. But it's stunning. High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, concierge service. The works."
Anastasia blinked. "You did all that... in thirty minutes?"
"I'm dramatic, not inefficient," Caroline replied, smug.
They arrived shortly after at a luxury high-rise that looked like it housed royalty. The lobby was marble and gold, the elevator ride silent except for Caroline's squeals.
"You know, for a girl in rebellion, you're not exactly suffering," Anastasia muttered.
"Please, suffering is for people not named Caroline" Caroline laughed.
The apartment was gorgeous. It opened into a grand living room with tall windows overlooking the city. Chandeliers sparkled in the evening light, and a large walk-in closet stood adjacent to an open kitchen.
"No bed," Anastasia noted after inspecting one of the rooms.
Caroline shrugged, dragging her luggage across the hardwood floor. "It's fine. Clothes first. Comfort later."
They spent an hour sorting Caroline's things, unpacking dresses, shoes, and designer handbags. Anastasia helped organize the closet while Caroline FaceTimed three friends to "make a statement."
Then, Caroline gasped.
"The gala!"
Anastasia blinked. "Oh right the gala"
"We're not missing it. Just because I'm newly homeless doesn't mean I'll skip the biggest event of the season."
"Technically, you're not homeless. This place is nicer than my mother's penthouse."
"Exactly. So get up. Let's go."
Caroline got ready in a flurry of makeup, heels, and jewelry she twirled in a velvet midnight gown with slits high enough to make headlines. "We're going to set the gala on fire."
They took the car they came with to the Montgomery estate in order for Anastasia to get ready. Upon arrival, Caroline's jaw dropped.
"Holy hell."
The mansion was enormous. Not just big—empire-level grand, with fountains, private gardens, and security that looked like they came from MI6.
"This is where you've been living?" Caroline whispered as they walked through the marble foyer.
Anastasia didn't reply. She was still getting used to the idea.
Caroline was left in the drawing room while Anastasia went to her room upstairs.
Her gown had been laid out on her bed —a custom-made evening dress that looked like it belonged on the Met Gala carpet. The dress was a shimmering rose gold, embroidered with delicate silver thread.
She slipped into it and stared at her reflection. Her skin glowed, her eyes framed by soft waves of hair and subtle makeup. She looked like a princess.
A knock came at the door.
Dante.
He stood there, already dressed in a black tuxedo. Clean lines, polished shoes, and a demeanor so cold it could ice the sun.
"We're leaving in five," he said.
She nodded and turned to leave, but he added, "Caroline will take a different car. I'm appearing with my fiancée."
Anastasia rolled her eyes.
And she did. Caroline, despite her theatrics, didn't argue when Dante gave her a key to another car. She took it with a curt nod and disappeared, leaving the soon-to-be couple to board the car alone.
In the vehicle, silence stretched like a taut wire. Dante looked out the window. Anastasia stared at her hands.
They arrived to chaos.
Cameras. Lights. Paparazzi. The crowd was ten times the usual.
Because Dante Montgomery didn't attend galas.
Until tonight.
Anastasia blinked through the flashes as the car door opened. Dante stepped out first, and immediately the press surged forward.
"Mr. Montgomery! Is it true?"
"Who is she?"
"Are the wedding rumors real?"
Then a hand reached for her. Dante.
He pulled her out slowly, gently, and then placed his palm against the small of her back.
She smiled. She had rehearsed this. Be in love. Act enchanted. Charm the cameras.
But she hadn't expected this.
Dante paused halfway down the red carpet, turned to her, and without warning, tilted her chin up.
"Smile," he said softly.
Then it happened.
He turned to her, still holding her hand, and slowly cupped her chin in front of everyone.
Her breath hitched.
He leaned in.
She tried to step back, but it was too late.
His lips met hers.
The world stopped.
It wasn't rough or desperate. It was slow — deliberate — calculated. A perfect kiss for the perfect lie. A kiss meant to send a message to the world.
Anastasia's mind screamed, but her body froze. The cameras clicked furiously, and the crowd roared, eating it up like the feast it was.
When he finally pulled back, she plastered on her most convincing smile, though her hands trembled slightly against the clutch in her hand.
"You bastard," she whispered under her breath, her teeth clenched behind her smile.
Dante smirked, whispering back without breaking character, "Smile wider, wife-to-be. You just broke the internet."