The world outside the tinted glass was chaos—camera flashes exploding against the black of night, voices raised like a mob demanding blood. The paparazzi swarmed the marble steps of the Rossi hotel as though they'd scented prey, and Isabella felt the pulse in her throat hammering against the confines of her pearl necklace.
"Keep your head down," Adrian murmured beside her. His hand pressed lightly against her back as the driver yanked open the car door. His voice was low, commanding in a way that left no room for argument.
She ducked into the sleek interior of the limousine, heart still racing, her gown tangling at her feet. Adrian slid in after her, the door slamming shut, cutting off the cacophony outside. For the first time in what felt like hours, silence enveloped her.
Except it wasn't silence at all.
It was his breathing. His presence. The way the narrow space seemed to shrink around them.
The driver pulled away from the curb, and the mob receded into the distance, but Isabella couldn't relax. She was still aware of how close Adrian was—how his shoulder brushed hers with every turn the car made, how the heat radiating from him seeped through the delicate silk of her dress.
Her pulse hadn't slowed. If anything, it had grown more frantic.
Adrian leaned back against the leather seat, loosening his tie with one hand. The movement was casual, careless, but Isabella's eyes betrayed her. They lingered on the column of his throat, the shadow of stubble along his jaw.
This was dangerous.
This was wrong.
He was Adrian De Luca, heir to the empire her family had sworn to destroy. The man her father despised with a hatred that had burned for generations.
And yet—he had just saved her. Publicly. In front of hundreds of watching eyes. One wrong slip, one misstep, and the night could have ended in a scandal that would stain her forever.
"Are you always this reckless?" His voice broke into her thoughts, deep and steady, though his eyes never left the dark window.
Her lips parted. "Reckless?"
"You were about to walk straight into their trap," he said, turning finally to face her. His gaze pinned her in place. "If I hadn't stepped in, those vultures would've had their headline for tomorrow: Rossi Heiress in Midnight Scandal."
Heat climbed Isabella's cheeks. She looked away, out at the blur of city lights rushing past. "I didn't ask you to interfere."
"No," he said softly, "you didn't."
Something in his tone made her chest tighten. She could feel his gaze lingering on her profile, the weight of it heavy, suffocating. She forced herself to keep her eyes on the window, but every nerve in her body was aware of him.
The car swerved gently as it merged onto the highway. Isabella's gown shifted, and the delicate fabric of her skirt brushed against Adrian's leg. She froze. He didn't move. The silence between them thickened, charged, and she could almost hear the rhythm of his heartbeat echoing the frantic pounding of her own.
This was unbearable.
She needed to breathe.
Isabella drew in a slow breath, the faint scent of his cologne wrapping around her—something dark, woodsy, threaded with spice. It was intoxicating, dangerous.
Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her gown. "I should thank you," she whispered, though the words felt like a betrayal.
Adrian's lips curved—not quite a smile, but close. "Don't. I didn't do it for thanks."
She turned then, unable to stop herself, and their eyes locked. The air between them seemed to crackle, pulling taut like a wire stretched to its breaking point.
Her mouth went dry.
Every warning, every memory of her father's words, every echo of her family's history screamed at her to turn away. To create distance. To protect herself.
But her body didn't move.
The city blurred by outside the windows, forgotten. The only thing that existed in that moment was Adrian—his eyes, steady and dark, searching hers as though he could read the thoughts she dared not speak aloud.
He leaned closer.
It wasn't much—a shift, barely an inch—but Isabella felt it like a spark. Her breath caught, and her hand trembled where it rested against the seat.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured, voice low, husky.
She couldn't.
Her throat locked, her lips parted, but no words came.
The space between them narrowed again, so slight, yet enough to make her heart stumble. His hand moved—hesitant, almost reluctant—and brushed against hers on the seat. A graze, nothing more. But her skin burned where he touched her, as though the slightest contact had ignited a fire that threatened to consume her.
"Adrian…" she whispered. His name slipped from her lips like a confession, trembling and forbidden.
He inhaled sharply, and the look in his eyes shifted—something raw, something dangerous.
The car hit a bump, jolting them forward. Their hands clutched instinctively for balance, fingers tangling. Isabella gasped, her palm pressed against his. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then, slowly, as though drawn by gravity itself, he laced his fingers through hers
Her chest tightened. Her breath faltered. This was madness.
And yet, she couldn't let go.
The silence stretched, thick with everything unspoken. His thumb brushed across her knuckles, a tender, dangerous caress that sent shivers racing through her. She wanted to pull away. She wanted to lean closer.
She wanted both.
The slow burn of tension grew unbearable. Every second their hands remained entwined, every flicker of his eyes toward her lips, every breath shared in the dark confines of the car—each moment pulled her closer to the edge.
She didn't know who moved first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was both.
But suddenly his face was closer—so close she could see the flecks of silver in his eyes, the faint scar near his temple, the curve of his mouth.
The world held its breath.
Her heart screamed against her ribs.
And then—finally—his lips brushed hers.
It was the softest kiss, tentative, almost hesitant. A question, not a command. Her breath hitched, and for a moment she froze—then melted into it, her eyes fluttering shut as heat surged through her veins.
The kiss deepened, slow, aching, forbidden. His hand rose to cup her jaw, thumb grazing her skin with a tenderness that unraveled every last thread of restraint she had. She leaned into him, surrendering, her own hand clutching at the lapel of his suit.
The world outside ceased to exist.
There was only him. His mouth on hers, his breath against her skin, the devastating truth that nothing in her life had ever felt this real.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, her forehead rested against his.
"This is wrong," she whispered, voice trembling.
His eyes opened, dark and burning. "Then why does it feel inevitable?"
She couldn't answer.
Her heart was too loud, her thoughts too tangled.
The car slowed, the city lights flashing against their faces. Isabella pulled back slightly, trying to steady herself, but her lips still tingled, her skin still burned where he had touched her.
She turned to the window, desperate for distraction—and that was when she saw it.
A red light flickering on the dashboard camera.
Her blood ran cold.
The entire time.
Every stolen glance. Every whispered word. The kiss.
Recorded.
Isabella's breath caught, panic surging through her. She turned sharply to Adrian, eyes wide. "The camera—"
But before she could finish, the car stopped in front of the Rossi estate. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror, expression unreadable.
And the red light on the camera blinked once, then went dark.