ELENA
THEN.
The silk of my gown clung to my skin as I adjusted the strap on my shoulder, ignoring the chaos buzzing around me. Makeup artists darted back and forth, stylists barking last-minute instructions, but I was used to the pre-show madness. The air backstage always felt charged before a big show.
"Five minutes, Elena!" someone called out.
I gave a small nod, catching my reflection in the mirror. A flawless face stared back—smooth, sun-kissed skin with a natural glow, framed by long, dark hair that cascaded down my back. My hazel eyes—sharp and expressive, capable of both warmth and fire—held steady even as tension curled in my chest. At twenty-six, I'd learned how to command attention without trying. Tall and poised at 5'8, I wore sophistication like armor.
The call for models to line up echoed down the hall. My heart thrummed with familiar adrenaline as I made my way toward the side of the stage. The bright white glow of the runway lights cut through the dimness of backstage, the rhythmic pulse of music vibrating beneath my feet.
When it was my turn, I stepped into the light, shoulders back, chin high. The silk of my gown swept around my legs as I strode forward, each step measured and deliberate. My heels clicked against the glossy runway, and I could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes on me. Cameras flashed, and whispers rippled through the crowd, but I tuned it all out. My gaze stayed straight ahead, expression cool and controlled.
The slit of my gown parted as I moved, revealing just enough leg to hint at allure without losing the grace the designers expected. My hips swayed with subtle precision, my arms relaxed at my sides. Confidence wasn't something I wore—it was embedded in the way I carried myself. I was a vision of elegance and restraint.
When I reached the end of the runway, I held my position, giving the photographers a moment to capture the shot. My hazel eyes met the darkened crowd, and I forced a soft, knowing smile. Then I pivoted smoothly and made my way back, the trailing hem of my gown whispering against the floor.
The applause erupted as I disappeared backstage, the tension in my chest loosening. My shoulders relaxed as I slipped off my heels, flexing my toes. Another show completed.
The applause was still ringing in my ears as I slipped off my heels and flexed my toes, savoring the relief. The silk of my gown slid over my skin as I made my way toward the dressing room. The chaos of backstage was already beginning to settle—stylists packing up their kits, models exchanging air kisses and disappearing into the night.
I pushed open the door to my dressing room, expecting silence. Instead, I froze.
A man stood near the vanity, hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored black trousers. His dark gaze lifted to meet mine through the mirror's reflection. My pulse quickened. He looked strangely familiar. Security was usually tight—no one got past without clearance. And yet, here he was, standing like he owned the place.
My eyes narrowed. "Who let you in?"
The man smiled faintly. His dark hair was slicked back, highlighting the sharp angles of his face—the strong jawline, the faint scar cutting across his left cheekbone. His eyes were dark and calm, calculating. Power radiated from him, quiet and absolute.
"I don't need permission," he said smoothly. His voice was low and controlled, the kind that made you lean in without realizing why.
I crossed my arms, the silk of my gown shifting with the motion. "That's not how it works."
His gaze sharpened, a flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. "For most people, maybe."
I hated how his voice slid under my skin, how the air seemed to thicken in the room. There was an ease to him, a quiet confidence that suggested he was used to getting whatever he wanted.
"You were stunning tonight," he said, stepping closer. The sharp scent of expensive cologne and something darker—something unmistakably masculine—lingered between us.
"Thank you." My voice was steady, but my heart was beating a little too fast.
"I'd like to buy you a drink."
I arched a brow. "Is that why you broke into my dressing room?"
He smiled again—lazy, unapologetic. "No. I wanted to see you up close."
A warning curled low in my stomach. My instincts were telling me to put distance between us. To walk away. But my feet remained rooted.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," I said carefully.
"Why not?"
"Because I know who you are."
"And who am I?"
I hesitated, even though we both knew the answer. "Lorenzo Russo."
The name weighed on my tongue. I'd heard it before—murmured at exclusive parties, mentioned in hushed conversations behind closed doors. Lorenzo Russo wasn't just wealthy—his power ran deeper, darker. The kind of influence that made people careful about how they said his name.
Lorenzo's gaze darkened, but his expression remained calm. "And yet, you're still standing here."
He was right. I should have left. My head screamed at me to refuse him. To walk away from the inevitable trouble a man like him could bring.
But then he stepped closer, so close I could feel the warmth of his body beneath the cool silk of my gown. "Just one drink," he murmured. "That's all I'm asking for."
Something in his voice—smooth and quiet, laced with quiet authority—slipped beneath my defenses. My lips parted before I could stop myself.
"Fine. One drink."
His mouth curved, satisfied. He extended his hand. "Shall we?"
Against my better judgment, I slid my hand into his. His grip was warm, strong—possessive.
As he led me toward the door, a cold knot of unease twisted low in my stomach. I knew this was dangerous. I knew better. But something about Lorenzo Russo made it impossible to say no.