Leona's eyes snapped open to stillness.
The room was dim, the light outside a soft gray-blue just past dawn. For a long moment, she didn't move. Not until her ears caught the sound of silence.
No lock clicking. No footsteps. No hum of air vents betraying a camera shift.
Just absence.
She sat up slowly, eyes scanning the room.
And froze.
At the foot of her bed sat a black rectangular box. Sleek. Seamless. The kind used to house things too expensive to name aloud. It hadn't been there when she fell asleep—she was sure of that.
Leona crawled forward, lifted the lid without ceremony.
Inside, nestled in black satin: a gown.
Not just any gown. Blood-red. Cut sharp across the shoulders, with a thigh slit that promised scandal and a neckline that promised war. It glimmered like it had been made from liquid violence.
Beneath it, a set of earrings—teardrop diamonds so clear they looked like frozen threats.
And resting on top, folded neatly, was a note in clean, masculine script.
She unfolded it.
Only one sentence.
"If you want to be seen, wear it." —L
Leona stared at the words.
No affection.
No apology.
Just command wrapped in a dare.
She dropped the note onto the bedspread and lifted the dress from the box. It was heavier than she expected. Expensive fabric always was. She held it up to the light, letting the red glow through her fingers like fresh blood.
Of course it was red.
Of course it was a warning.
She traced the edge of the neckline with her thumb, then looked up toward the corner camera.
"Careful, Lucien," she murmured. "You keep handing me sharp things. One day I'll stop using them on myself."
The light didn't blink.
She didn't expect it to. PART 2: MIRROR GAMES The dress slid over her skin like silk dipped in threat.
It clung to her body perfectly too perfectly. It had been tailored to her measurements before she'd ever stepped foot in this house. That realization wasn't flattering.
It was chilling.
She stood before the full-length mirror, staring at the reflection that wasn't quite hers. The woman looking back wasn't Leona De Luca not the girl who used to sneak out of strategy meetings with her brothers, not the one who laughed too loud at Matteo's jokes or ran barefoot across stone courtyards with wine-stained lips.
This woman wore red like a promise of blood.
Hair swept back. Lips painted. Diamonds at her ears.
The color made her skin glow and her eyes colder. She looked untouchable. She looked like a wife. Not a partner.
A weapon.
Leona smoothed the dress along her hips, then turned slowly, watching how the fabric moved with her fluid, dangerous, meant to distract while daggers were drawn.
"You want me to be seen," she murmured, repeating Lucien's note.
"Fine. Watch."
She ran her hand down her collarbone, testing how far the neckline plunged. Strategic, of course. Every inch of the design was curated for effect: not a seduction, but a statement.
She was being presented tonight like a queen on a chessboard.
The difference was she didn't plan on staying a piece.
She was going to be the hand that knocked the whole board over.
Turning back to the bed, she opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out the lipstick she'd found tucked away the day before—another gift, clearly.
She applied it carefully in the mirror. Blood red. Of course.
Then she smiled.
Not wide.
Not warm.
Just enough to sharpen the edge of her cheekbone.
Let them watch.
She wasn't afraid of being seen anymore.
She was planning on what they'd remember
. PART 3: A WARNING IN SILK
She didn't wait for an escort.
When the clock struck seven, Leona opened her own damn door, heels clicking against the polished floors like a declaration. The gown swept behind her like a war flag, and her chin never dipped not once.
She found him standing at the bottom of the grand staircase, talking quietly to a man she didn't recognize tall, well-dressed, wearing a pin on his lapel that said dangerous, but discreet.
Lucien looked up the moment she appeared.
Their eyes met.
He didn't blink.
His companion stopped mid-sentence and followed his gaze.
Leona descended slowly, one hand on the iron railing, letting the silence stretch. She knew how she looked. She knew the effect. And she'd be damned if she let him be the only one in this house allowed to control the narrative.
When she reached the last step, Lucien dismissed the other man with a look.
He didn't offer her his arm.
Just turned to her with that same infuriating calm and said, "It fits."
Leona raised a brow. "That's what you open with? Not 'hello,' not 'you look stunning' just 'it fits'?"
"It was supposed to."
She smirked. "How very efficient of you."
His gaze drifted briefly down her figure not with hunger, but with the detached calculation of someone assessing his investment.
"You wore it," he said. "That's what matters."
She took a step closer. "You picked a red dress. You do realize the symbolism, don't you?"
Lucien's voice dropped a fraction. "I didn't choose it for symbolism."
"No?" She tilted her head. "Then why?"
He leaned in just enough that she could feel the heat of his breath near her ear.
"Because it's the color you'll leave behind when you make the wrong enemy."
The words slid under her skin like icewater.
He pulled back, face unreadable.
Then offered her his arm, finally. "Shall we?"
Leona stared at him for a beat.
Then took it.
Not because she trusted him.
But because if the devil offers you his hand in public
You take it.
And burn him later.
PART 4: THE ROOM FULL OF LIONS
The private dining hall glowed with polished decadence. Gold chandeliers hung from a vaulted ceiling. Dark wood panels lined the walls. Crystal sparkled at every place setting, and the long black table was already surrounded by men in power-stitched suits and women who wore their wealth like armor.
As they entered, conversation dulled to a respectful hum.
All eyes turned.
Lucien's hand stayed light on her back as he guided her toward the head of the table. His fingers weren't possessive. They didn't need to be. The gesture was enough to tell the room: she's his.
And that she wasn't going anywhere.
Leona met their stares with a slight smile just enough to read as polite. She'd learned that look from her mother. It translated in every language: I see you. And I might bury you later.
Don Romano stood to greet them. "Beautiful," he said as she approached, voice rich and hollow like a man long practiced in flattery. "Welcome to the family, Leona."
"Still getting used to the chains," she replied with sugar-laced venom, "but thank you."
The guests laughed, too caught off guard to decide if it was a joke.
Lucien didn't flinch.
They took their seats, he at the head, she to his right.
Wine was poured. Dishes arrived in quiet waves.
The men spoke business in low voices. Trade. Ports. Quiet bloodshed dressed as logistics. Leona smiled at all the right times. Nodded when expected. But beneath the surface, she kept her blade sharp.
When Lucien asked for the salt, she passed it—slow, deliberate.
"Careful," she said under her breath. "Wouldn't want to spill any."
He didn't miss the meaning. Salt. Bad luck. Unholy omens.
Later, when a guest asked how they met, Lucien simply said, "Through necessity."
Leona rested her chin on her hand and added, "He courted me with contracts. Very romantic."
A few at the table chuckled, unsure if it was safe to laugh.
Lucien poured her wine without comment.
She smiled at him sweetly. "Are you always this generous?"
He looked at her with that unreadable gaze. "Only with things I already own."
Her smile didn't falter.
But her knuckles whitened beneath the table.
The night wore on like a performance neither of them had rehearsed, yet both knew by heart.
The lion and the lamb.
Except no one could tell who was who.
PART 5: THE LAST DANCE
The final course had been cleared. The last glasses of wine were half-full and forgotten. Conversation had thinned to murmurs, the kind that carried more weight in silence than speech.
A soft string quartet began to play from the far corner of the hall unseen, but unmistakably intentional.
Leona's heart sank the second the first notes touched the air.
She knew what was coming.
Lucien stood without a word and held out his hand to her.
A pause.
Then she slid her fingers into his, rising from her seat like a woman heading to the gallows.
Gasps rippled softly from the table. Not all the guests had expected this part of the evening. And certainly not from them.
The Devil and his bride.
They moved into the center of the open marble floor, and without needing to speak, Lucien pulled her close. One hand on her lower back. The other guiding her hand up to his chest. Her palm rested over his heart.
If it beat, it did so slowly.
"You never told me you dance," she murmured.
"I don't," he said. "But I do enjoy control."
His voice was low enough only she could hear.
They moved together with startling ease, not gracefully—but powerfully. The kind of dance that wasn't about rhythm, but tension. Leona refused to falter. Her heels clicked cleanly with every step, her posture perfect, her chin high.
"You don't need to lead," she said, tightening her fingers slightly. "I know the steps."
"I don't want you to know them," he murmured. "I want you to follow."
She looked up, eyes glittering. "If you want a puppet, marry someone spineless."
He didn't respond at first.
Then he leaned in closer than he'd ever dared. His breath brushed the curve of her jaw.
And in the softest, most dangerous tone yet, he whispered:
"If I ever wanted to break you, Leona… I wouldn't use force."
Her pulse kicked.
"I'd make you beg me to finish the job."
Her breath hitched.
And still, they danced.
Perfect. Composed. Like everything between them wasn't made of knives.
When the music ended, he stepped back, released her hand.
Applause followed.
Not for the dance.
But for the illusion.
Lucien turned away first, walking calmly back to his guests.
Leona stayed where she was, chest rising slowly, her hand still tingling where he'd touched her.
And she realized something terrifying.
He didn't just know how to control her.
He was starting to enjoy it.