The ballroom's music had dwindled into soft murmurs, leaving a lingering echo of the orchestra's final note. Isabella's heels clicked against the marble floor as she slipped past clusters of chattering guests. Every laugh and clink of crystal glasses felt like a chain tightening around her throat. The glittering hall, with its chandeliers dripping like frozen waterfalls, had never seemed more suffocating.
She needed air. Freedom. Just a few stolen minutes to breathe away from the velvet trap of her father's watchful eyes.
Sliding through a pair of heavy velvet curtains, she stepped out onto the balcony. The city sprawled below like a river of molten lights, glimmering gold and silver against the ink of night. A soft wind teased the folds of her gown, lifting the silk along her legs. For the first time in hours, she felt something close to peace.
But peace never lasted in a Valentini world.
"Running away?"
Her heart stuttered. She turned sharply to see Adrian Rossi leaning casually against the stone balustrade, one hand resting on the cool marble, a glass of scotch catching the faint city lights. His dark eyes fixed on her with predatory precision. Even in the shadows, he seemed impossibly sharp—every line of him taut with controlled energy, the kind of danger that could slice clean through a room without making a sound.
"You shouldn't be here," Isabella said, her voice tighter than she intended. She straightened, chest rising and falling in defiance, though the tension coiled like a spring inside her. "This is private."
"Private?" Adrian's brow quirked, lips curving. "For you, maybe. But I've never been one for rules, Isabella. Especially not when they involve a Valentini."
She felt a shiver, not from the night air. There was something in his gaze, a sharp, magnetic force that made it impossible to step back. His eyes weren't just seeing her—they were probing, weighing, calculating. The thought made her pulse accelerate.
"You don't know me," she said, taking a step back.
He tilted his head slightly, as if she'd just made the most interesting statement he'd heard all night. "I know enough. I saw the way you looked at that door before you walked out. Not like a guest leaving a party. Like a prisoner sneaking toward freedom."
Her breath hitched. He saw her. Not the Isabella her father demanded she be, draped in silk and jewels, performing obedience. But her—the girl who craved autonomy, even if she didn't fully understand it herself.
"Careful," she whispered. "You don't know what you're saying."
"And yet," he murmured, stepping closer, "you're still standing here with me."
The balcony seemed to shrink around them. The night sky stretched overhead, endless and cold, but between them, there was heat. She could feel the warmth of him, subtle yet undeniable. His presence pressed against her senses—dangerous, intoxicating.
"You shouldn't tempt me," Isabella said, though her tone wavered, betraying the flutter in her chest.
"I'm not tempting," Adrian replied, voice low. "I'm giving you a choice. Walk away—or stay. It's yours to decide."
Her pulse thudded like a drumbeat against her ribs. Every instinct screamed to retreat. Yet her body refused. She felt drawn to him, as though some invisible force yanked her closer against her will.
"You're reckless," she said, half to herself, half to him.
"And you're caged," he shot back, voice smooth, edged with something that made her breath catch. "Do you always obey your father?"
Her jaw clenched. "You know nothing about me."
"Maybe not. But I know enough to see you're suffocating," he said, eyes locking onto hers. "And I know enough to want to help you breathe."
The words were dangerous. The heat in his gaze was dangerous. And the way his body leaned subtly into hers, close but not touching, made her aware of every nerve ending in her body.
She swallowed, trying to reclaim composure. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"And you shouldn't dance with your enemy," he replied, stepping even closer. "Yet here we are."
A gust of wind swept across the balcony, tugging at her hair, the edge of her gown. For a fleeting moment, the world narrowed until there was nothing but him and her and the crackling tension between them.
He raised a hand, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. His thumb grazed her cheek, gentle, deliberate. The touch sent a ripple of heat straight to her core. Her knees threatened to betray her, but she planted her feet firmly, reminding herself who she was—and who she shouldn't want.
"Tell me to leave," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "And I will. I promise."
Her heart hammered in her chest. Every instinct screamed run, every thought told her danger, and yet… a part of her wanted to lean into him. Just once. To see if the fire they sparked could burn without consuming them entirely.
She didn't respond.
His lips hovered near hers, just inches away, and the world seemed to hold its breath. One move, one small tilt of her chin, and their lips would meet.
And then—
"Isabella."
The voice was a whip, cutting through the tension like a blade.
She jolted back. Her father stood in the doorway, eyes narrowing like twin daggers, suspicion and fury radiating off him. Every muscle in her body tensed.
Adrian stepped back smoothly, sliding into the shadows with a practiced calm, but his eyes never left hers. There was a promise there, unspoken yet unmistakable.
Her father's gaze locked on her, and for a heartbeat, she felt like a trapped animal, caught between desire and duty, freedom and control.
She straightened, smoothed her gown, and returned inside, the ballroom's glittering lights suddenly harsh and suffocating. Every step toward her father's side felt heavy, measured, calculated. Her heart still raced, every nerve alight with the memory of Adrian's nearness.
And as she passed back into the crowd, the truth she refused to admit whispered through her mind like a dangerous secret:
She had almost let Adrian Rossi kiss her.
And part of her wanted to.