"She Wore a Daring Dress to the Enemy’s Gala—The Mafia Boss Went Mad With Jealousy!"
"She Wore a Daring Dress to the Enemy’s Gala—The Mafia Boss Went Mad With Jealousy!"
Dorian Hale was hired to protect Arya Voss, not love her.
For seven years, he stood three steps behind her, slept outside her door, and buried every feeling like a soldier burying evidence.
But the night she walked into the Varick gala in a red silk dress, another man put his hand on her waist—and Dorian finally broke the rule that had kept them both alive.
The black town car moved through rain-slicked Manhattan like a blade.
Inside, Arya pressed both palms against the red silk of her dress, trying to stop her hands from trembling. The dress was not just clothing. It was a declaration.
Her father, Marcus Voss, would have chosen ivory. Navy. Pale gray. Colors that whispered obedience. Colors that photographed well beside powerful men.
Red said something else.
Red said she was tired of being displayed like a daughter-shaped jewel inside a locked case.
Across from her, Dorian sat perfectly still, black suit immaculate, gray eyes fixed on the window. He had been her shadow since she was sixteen. Every hallway. Every elevator. Every gala. Every forbidden doorway.
He had taught her how to throw a punch without breaking her wrist.
How to read a room.
How to spot a lie before the person finished speaking.
How to survive the world her father built.
But he had never touched her unless protection required it.
Not softly.
Not casually.
Not the way a man touches a woman he thinks about when he is alone.
“You’re fidgeting,” Dorian said.
“I’m nervous.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
His jaw tightened once.
“You smile. You nod. You don’t drink anything you didn’t watch poured. And when I tell you to leave, you leave.”
Arya looked at him.
“Yes, sir.”
His head snapped toward her.
“Don’t.”
She lifted one eyebrow.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t call me that. Not tonight.”
For one suspended second, his mask cracked. Not much. Just enough for Arya to see something underneath.
Anger.
Hunger.
A feeling locked away too long.
Then the car stopped.
The Varick estate glowed through the rain like money learning how to threaten.
Dorian got out first. He scanned the entrance, hand near the gun beneath his jacket, then extended his hand without looking.
Arya took it.
The moment their fingers touched, he stilled.
Only for a heartbeat.
Anyone else would have missed it.
Arya did not.
“Easy, soldier,” she murmured.
He released her hand like it had burned him.
Inside, the gala roared.
Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. Dark portraits. Three hundred people smiling with their teeth and watching one another like enemies at dinner.
Marcus Voss stood near the staircase with bourbon in one hand.
When he saw Arya, his face went pale.
Then hard.
“What in God’s name are you wearing?” he asked.
“A dress.”
“That is not a dress. That is an invitation.”
“Then I suppose I should be careful who reads it.”
Marcus’s eyes shifted to Dorian.
“You let her leave the house in this?”
Dorian did not blink.
“She did not ask my permission, sir.”
“She doesn’t have to ask. You’re paid to use your eyes.”
“I used them, sir. She still came.”
For a moment, Marcus looked like he might strike him.
Instead, he touched Arya’s cheek.
Almost gently.
“You look like your mother.”
Then he walked away.
The first hour became a blur of introductions and hidden threats. Senators. Bankers. Old enemies pretending to be friends. Women who called Arya exquisite and meant something crueler.
Three paces behind her, Dorian stood like a wall.
She could feel him.
She always could.
Then the orchestra changed.
Slower.
Darker.
A man stepped from the edge of the dance floor.
Tall. Dark gold hair. Green eyes. A polished smile.
Behind Arya, Dorian shifted.
“Don’t,” he said.
The man bowed slightly.
“Miss Voss. Lucian Varick.”
The name landed like a gunshot.
Varick.
Her father’s oldest enemy.
The family tied to her mother’s death, though nothing had ever been proved in any court that mattered.
“Mr. Varick,” Arya said evenly.
“One dance?”
Dorian’s voice cut in.
“We’re leaving.”
Arya did not turn.
“One dance.”
“Arya.”
“I said one dance, Dorian.”
Lucian’s hand settled on her waist.
Lower than it should have.
Possessive.
Every eye in the room turned.
“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” Lucian murmured.
“I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“Liar.”
His fingers tightened slightly.
“I asked your father to bring you tonight.”
Arya stumbled.
“You what?”
Over Lucian’s shoulder, she saw Dorian.
He stood perfectly still, one hand wrapped around a crystal tumbler, eyes locked on hers.
Then the glass cracked.
It shattered in his hand.
Clear liquid and blood slid between his fingers onto the marble floor.
Lucian smiled.
“Oh,” he whispered. “That’s interesting.”
Dorian began walking toward them.
Not running.
Not rushing.
Inevitable.
Lucian leaned down and pressed his mouth to Arya’s temple.
Just enough for everyone to see.
Just enough for Dorian to break.
Dorian’s hand closed around Lucian’s throat before Arya could blink.
May you like
The music stopped.
And across the ballroom, Marcus Voss slowly set down his bourbon.
