The dress was a last-minute change. She'd tried on the emerald silk I chose, and it fit like a dream, hugging her curves in ways that made my mouth water. But when she stepped out of the closet, her gaze had landed on another option hanging at the back. Sapphire blue, off the shoulder, with a slit that reveals miles of toned leg when she walks. "This one," she'd said, and the certainty in her voice made argument impossible.
She was right. The blue transforms her into something mythical and dangerous all at once. The color brings out the electric tips of her hair and makes her eyes glow in the chandelier light. Every man in the room notices. I notice them noticing.
My hand rests on the small of her back, warm through the thin silk, a constant point of contact that tells everyone in this room she belongs to me. Her spine stays straight beneath my palm, her smile polished to perfection, but I catch the slight tension in her shoulders every time someone from her father's world approaches. The way her fingers tighten around her clutch. The almost imperceptible flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.
They look at her differently now. Not with the dismissive tolerance they showed Enzo Marchetti's disposable daughter. No, these gazes carry fear. Respect. The wary acknowledgment that she married into power that eclipses her father's empire like the sun eclipses a candle flame.
Good. Let them tremble.
"You're staring." Her voice is low, meant only for me, threaded with amusement that makes my chest warm despite the weight of the wish in my pocket.
"Can you blame me?" I lean closer, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, her jasmine scent flooding my senses until I'm drowning in it. "Every man in this room wants to know what you look like beneath that dress. I'm the only one who gets to find out."
The flush that spreads across her cheeks, pink blooming beneath golden skin, is worth more than every diamond in the room.
"Arrogant." But she leans into my touch, her body softening against my side, the tension in her shoulders easing by degrees.
"Honest."
We circulate through the crowd, playing the game of politics and power that events like this demand. Handshakes that linger too long and air kisses that land nowhere near actual skin and conversations that say nothing while meaning everything. Through it all, my hand never leaves her back. My attention never wavers from her safety.
Which is why I spot Enzo Marchetti the moment he enters the ballroom.
Ilona's spine goes rigid beneath my palm. Her breath catches, a tiny hitch that tells me she's seen him too. The clutch in her hand trembles almost imperceptibly.
"You knew he'd be here." Her voice is barely audible, meant for my ears alone. "That's why we came tonight."
"One of the reasons."
"You're using me as a weapon." There's no accusation in it. Just quiet recognition.
"I'm using us as a statement. There's a difference."
She's quiet for a beat, her fingers tightening around her clutch. Then her chin lifts and her shoulders roll back, the trembling gone as if she willed it out of existence.
"Then let's make sure it's a loud one."
Pride burns through my chest, hot and fierce. This woman. My jungle flower with her thorns out when it counts.
"Easy." I keep my voice calm, my posture relaxed, even as every predator instinct I possess screams to eliminate the threat. "He can't touch you here."
Enzo moves through the crowd like a shark through calm waters, his silver hair gleaming beneath the chandeliers, his smile warm and paternal and utterly, devastatingly false. The guests part for him unconsciously, some gravitating closer, others drifting away, all of them aware on some primal level that a predator has entered their midst.
Ilona's spine doesn’t relax. "You don't know him." Her words are barely audible, meant for my ears alone. "He doesn't need to touch me to hurt me."
“My source tells me he already knows we are married. The courthouse staff did their job of spreading the news.”
Ilona’s gaze flicks to mine. “I could have used that information before right this minute.”
I hold back a cringe. “You're right. I should have told you sooner.”
“Good. Now I have one of my own to share. There's no way he doesn't know I'm pregnant. He's by now found the pregnancy tests I left behind in my apartment. Now he knows I'm carrying the enemy's baby.”
“Good to know.”
Enzo crosses the remaining distance with the easy confidence of a man who believes he controls every room he enters. His expensive suit fits him like armor. His cologne reaches us before he does, something cloying and old-fashioned that makes my stomach turn.
He stops before us and inclines his head in a gesture that might pass for respect if you didn't know to look deeper.