The Rossi ballroom was still glittering with false laughter when I left, but the sound followed me like an echo I couldn't shake.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?"
My father's voice cracked like a whip as soon as the car door shut behind us. His reflection glared at me in the tinted glass, jaw clenched, silver hair perfectly combed despite his rage.
I unbuttoned my jacket, leaning back into the leather seat. "I stopped a drunk from humiliating a woman. Forgive me for being decent for once."
His eyes were ice. "That woman was Isabella Rossi."
The name sat between us like a loaded gun.
I didn't respond. My father didn't tolerate silence, but tonight I needed it. Her face flashed in my mind again—the storm in her eyes, the scarlet of her dress, the way she said you're not a hero.
She wasn't supposed to matter. She wasn't supposed to be anything but a line on the enemy's family tree. And yet
My father's voice cut through again. "The Rossis will use this. They'll paint you as reckless, unhinged. You think they'll let a scandal like this fade? No, Adrian. They'll turn it into blood."
I exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the seat. "If the Rossi patriarch has a problem, he can come to me himself."
His laugh was dry, humorless. "He won't come to you. He'll go after your company. Your deals. Your power." His eyes narrowed. "And if you're foolish enough to fall into his daughter's trap, you'll lose everything I've built."
Trap. The word curdled in my gut. Isabella hadn't looked like a trap. She'd looked like…
I pushed the thought away.
"We're finished talking about this," I said.
But I knew, from the venom in his silence, that we weren't.
The next day, the tabloids exploded.
"King Heir and Rossi Heiress: Sparks at the Gala?"
"Enemies to Lovers? Adrian King Spotted with Isabella Rossi"
Photos littered the internet—grainy but damning. One showed me standing too close to her, another catching the split-second her eyes had lifted to mine. The one on the balcony was the worst: shadows, whispers, the illusion of intimacy.
My PR team scrambled like ants. Phones buzzed, meetings piled up. A billion-dollar merger on my desk was suddenly at risk because investors didn't like the word scandal.
By noon, I was pacing my office with the skyline blazing behind me.
My assistant, Claire, read from her tablet nervously. "Damage control statements drafted, sir. We can say it was coincidence. You were only—"
"—being polite?" I snapped. "No one will buy that."
Claire hesitated. "The Rossis haven't made a statement yet. Maybe if we wait—"
The intercom buzzed. My father's voice was sharp as ever. "Boardroom. Now."
The Rossi estate was just as golden as I remembered, though I had no reason to be here willingly. Yet hours later, I found myself standing in its grand meeting hall.
Two families. One table.
On one side: my father and me. On the other: Antonio Rossi, patriarch, his shark-smile sharp enough to draw blood, and beside him… Isabella.
She was flawless again, hair swept up, red lipstick drawing every eye. But her wrist, the one I had freed from that man's grip, bore the faintest shadow of a bruise. My chest tightened before I could stop it.
Her gaze brushed mine only once, brief and unreadable, before fixing on the polished wood of the table.
Antonio Rossi's voice carried across the silence. "This… incident has brought unwanted attention to both our families."
My father's response was a snarl. "Your daughter was nearly assaulted at your own event. My son stepped in. If anyone looks bad here, it's you."
Antonio's laugh was smooth, practiced. "And yet the press doesn't frame it that way. They call it a forbidden spark. They want a scandal." His eyes slid toward me, gleaming. "And scandal sells."
I didn't flinch. "I don't care what sells. I didn't touch your daughter."
For the first time, Isabella spoke. Her voice was steady, calm as glass. "I can confirm Mr. King was only intervening."
The word Mr. King sat heavy between us, colder than it needed to be.
Antonio waved a dismissive hand. "Regardless, the photographs are out there. Our families can't afford this… fairy tale."
Fairy tale. I almost laughed.
My father leaned forward. "So what do you suggest?"
Antonio's smile widened. "Simple. A joint statement. Both Adrian and Isabella deny everything. Publicly."
The air grew tight.
My father nodded instantly, eager to bury this. But my eyes remained on Isabella. She hadn't moved. Not a blink, not a breath out of place. She was marble carved into a perfect daughter, a perfect weapon.
Deny everything.
But my mind betrayed me. It replayed the heat of her gaze, the tension of that night, the way my pulse had quickened in her presence.
She wasn't marble. She was fire pretending to be stone.
"Adrian," my father snapped, dragging me back. "You agree?"
I opened my mouth, the words ready. Yes. Of course. Deny everything. It was common sense.
But then Isabella looked up at me. And for one dangerous second, her eyes said what her lips couldn't.
Don't.
The meeting adjourned with signatures and threats hidden behind handshakes. My father was satisfied. The Rossis were smug.
But I wasn't.
I found her on the balcony after, away from the cameras, away from her father's watchful eye. She was staring at the city, shoulders stiff, the faint bruise on her wrist catching the moonlight.
"You didn't need to back me up in there," I said quietly.
Her jaw tightened. "I wasn't doing it for you. I was doing it for myself. I don't need another man telling my story."
Her words hit harder than they should have.
"Then why tell them I was innocent?"
She turned, eyes flashing. "Because you were."
We stood too close again. Always too close.
The city lights burned around us, and I could feel the tension pulling us like gravity.
Her lips parted—maybe to curse me, maybe to thank me. I'd never know.
Because suddenly, the flash of a camera split the night.
Paparazzi.
More flashes followed, sharp and relentless. Shouts echoed from the garden below. "Adrian! Isabella! Look here!"
Her eyes widened. I didn't think. I grabbed her hand, pulling her inside, down the corridor, through the shadows. Her heels clicked against marble as we ran, adrenaline drowning out reason.
At last, I pushed her into a side hallway, breath ragged.
"They'll eat us alive," she whispered.
Her hand was still in mine. Warm. Dangerous. Forbidden.
And I knew with terrifying certainty: we had just made everything worse.
The Rossi ballroom was still glittering with false laughter when I left, but the sound followed me like an echo I couldn't shake.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?"
My father's voice cracked like a whip as soon as the car door shut behind us. His reflection glared at me in the tinted glass, jaw clenched, silver hair perfectly combed despite his rage.
I unbuttoned my jacket, leaning back into the leather seat. "I stopped a drunk from humiliating a woman. Forgive me for being decent for once."
His eyes were ice. "That woman was Isabella Rossi."
The name sat between us like a loaded gun.
I didn't respond. My father didn't tolerate silence, but tonight I needed it. Her face flashed in my mind again—the storm in her eyes, the scarlet of her dress, the way she said you're not a hero.
She wasn't supposed to matter. She wasn't supposed to be anything but a line on the enemy's family tree. And yet
My father's voice cut through again. "The Rossis will use this. They'll paint you as reckless, unhinged. You think they'll let a scandal like this fade? No, Adrian. They'll turn it into blood."
I exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the seat. "If the Rossi patriarch has a problem, he can come to me himself."
His laugh was dry, humorless. "He won't come to you. He'll go after your company. Your deals. Your power." His eyes narrowed. "And if you're foolish enough to fall into his daughter's trap, you'll lose everything I've built."
Trap. The word curdled in my gut. Isabella hadn't looked like a trap. She'd looked like…
I pushed the thought away.
"We're finished talking about this," I said.
But I knew, from the venom in his silence, that we weren't.
The next day, the tabloids exploded.
"King Heir and Rossi Heiress: Sparks at the Gala?"
"Enemies to Lovers? Adrian King Spotted with Isabella Rossi"
Photos littered the internet—grainy but damning. One showed me standing too close to her, another catching the split-second her eyes had lifted to mine. The one on the balcony was the worst: shadows, whispers, the illusion of intimacy.
My PR team scrambled like ants. Phones buzzed, meetings piled up. A billion-dollar merger on my desk was suddenly at risk because investors didn't like the word scandal.
By noon, I was pacing my office with the skyline blazing behind me.
My assistant, Claire, read from her tablet nervously. "Damage control statements drafted, sir. We can say it was coincidence. You were only—"
"—being polite?" I snapped. "No one will buy that."
Claire hesitated. "The Rossis haven't made a statement yet. Maybe if we wait—"
The intercom buzzed. My father's voice was sharp as ever. "Boardroom. Now."
The Rossi estate was just as golden as I remembered, though I had no reason to be here willingly. Yet hours later, I found myself standing in its grand meeting hall.
Two families. One table.
On one side: my father and me. On the other: Antonio Rossi, patriarch, his shark-smile sharp enough to draw blood, and beside him… Isabella.
She was flawless again, hair swept up, red lipstick drawing every eye. But her wrist, the one I had freed from that man's grip, bore the faintest shadow of a bruise. My chest tightened before I could stop it.
Her gaze brushed mine only once, brief and unreadable, before fixing on the polished wood of the table.
Antonio Rossi's voice carried across the silence. "This… incident has brought unwanted attention to both our families."
My father's response was a snarl. "Your daughter was nearly assaulted at your own event. My son stepped in. If anyone looks bad here, it's you."
Antonio's laugh was smooth, practiced. "And yet the press doesn't frame it that way. They call it a forbidden spark. They want a scandal." His eyes slid toward me, gleaming. "And scandal sells."
I didn't flinch. "I don't care what sells. I didn't touch your daughter."
For the first time, Isabella spoke. Her voice was steady, calm as glass. "I can confirm Mr. King was only intervening."
The word Mr. King sat heavy between us, colder than it needed to be.
Antonio waved a dismissive hand. "Regardless, the photographs are out there. Our families can't afford this… fairy tale."
Fairy tale. I almost laughed.
My father leaned forward. "So what do you suggest?"
Antonio's smile widened. "Simple. A joint statement. Both Adrian and Isabella deny everything. Publicly."
The air grew tight.
My father nodded instantly, eager to bury this. But my eyes remained on Isabella. She hadn't moved. Not a blink, not a breath out of place. She was marble carved into a perfect daughter, a perfect weapon.
Deny everything.
But my mind betrayed me. It replayed the heat of her gaze, the tension of that night, the way my pulse had quickened in her presence.
She wasn't marble. She was fire pretending to be stone.
"Adrian," my father snapped, dragging me back. "You agree?"
I opened my mouth, the words ready. Yes. Of course. Deny everything. It was common sense.
But then Isabella looked up at me. And for one dangerous second, her eyes said what her lips couldn't.
Don't.
The meeting adjourned with signatures and threats hidden behind handshakes. My father was satisfied. The Rossis were smug.
But I wasn't.
I found her on the balcony after, away from the cameras, away from her father's watchful eye. She was staring at the city, shoulders stiff, the faint bruise on her wrist catching the moonlight.
"You didn't need to back me up in there," I said quietly.
Her jaw tightened. "I wasn't doing it for you. I was doing it for myself. I don't need another man telling my story."
Her words hit harder than they should have.
"Then why tell them I was innocent?"
She turned, eyes flashing. "Because you were."
We stood too close again. Always too close.
The city lights burned around us, and I could feel the tension pulling us like gravity.
Her lips parted—maybe to curse me, maybe to thank me. I'd never know.
Because suddenly, the flash of a camera split the night.
Paparazzi.
More flashes followed, sharp and relentless. Shouts echoed from the garden below. "Adrian! Isabella! Look here!"
Her eyes widened. I didn't think. I grabbed her hand, pulling her inside, down the corridor, through the shadows. Her heels clicked against marble as we ran, adrenaline drowning out reason.
At last, I pushed her into a side hallway, breath ragged.
"They'll eat us alive," she whispered.
Her hand was still in mine. Warm. Dangerous. Forbidden.
And I knew with terrifying certainty: we had just made everything worse.