Fractured possession

Luca's grip on Alessandra's wrist was ironclad as he dragged her through the marble corridors of the Ricci estate, away from the grand ballroom, away from the flashing cameras and murmuring elites. His fingers burned against her skin, a silent brand of possession and fury. The scent of cigars and expensive cologne clung to the air, mixing with the lingering perfume of champagne and freshly cut roses from the lavish centerpieces.

She barely had time to catch her breath before he maneuvered them through a set of gilded doors and into the dimly lit hallway beyond. The echoes of laughter and classical music from the gala faded into the distance, replaced by the sharp, controlled rhythm of Luca's polished Italian leather shoes striking the floor. The opulence of the Ricci estate surrounded them—hand-painted frescoes sprawled across the ceiling, gold filigree curling along the ornate molding, a silent testament to power and old money.

"Let go." Alessandra's voice was low but firm, her pulse unsteady beneath his grip.

Luca didn't.

Not until he had her pressed against the cool marble wall of an empty corridor, his body caging hers in. The cold seeped through the silk of her gown, a stark contrast to the heat of his fury. A grand Murano glass chandelier hung overhead, its delicate crystals casting fractured patterns of gold and ivory along the walls. Shadows flickered across Luca's face, sharpening the angles of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.

"What the hell was that?" His voice was a blade, cutting through the thick silence between them.

Alessandra lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with quiet defiance, but she couldn't ignore the unsteady rhythm of her own heart. Matteo's touch still lingered, a ghost of heat along her skin.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, though they both knew the answer.

Luca let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Don't play dumb, Alessandra." His free hand slammed against the wall beside her, caging her in further. "You let him touch you."

A shiver crawled down her spine, but she refused to look away. "I didn't let him do anything. He took my hand."

"And you didn't pull away."

She said nothing.

Because he was right.

Because when Matteo's fingers had curled around hers, she had forgotten about everything else—the watchful eyes, the consequences, the promises she was breaking.

Luca's breath came rough and uneven as his grip on her wrist tightened. "Do you have any idea what that looked like? What everyone must be thinking?"

The world had been watching. The old money families, the politicians, the underworld elite. In their circles, perception was everything. And in that moment, Alessandra had been seen not as Luca's fiancée, but as something untouchable slipping through his grasp.

She swallowed. "I don't care what they think."

Luca's eyes flashed. "Then do you care what I think?"

She exhaled slowly. The silk of her gown clung to her like a second skin, the deep emerald fabric shimmering under the golden glow of the chandelier. A custom Versace creation—hand-stitched, adorned with delicate beadwork that caught the light with every subtle movement. It was elegance and restraint, luxury and temptation, a reflection of the role she played in this world.

But standing here, cornered by Luca, she felt none of the power her appearance was meant to convey.

His hand moved, fingertips ghosting up her arm, over her shoulder, to the delicate line of her jaw. A slow, deliberate touch.

"Tell me," he murmured, his voice dangerously soft, "do you forget about me when he's near?"

Her breath hitched.

Luca leaned in, his warmth invading her space, his presence suffocating. His cologne—an intoxicating blend of cedar and spice, crisp and commanding—wrapped around her, a scent meant to mark his territory.

But it did nothing to make her heart race.

Not like Matteo did.

Memories of the dance flashed through her mind—Matteo's touch, the firm yet teasing grip of his hand on her waist, the silent battle of wills between them. She had tried to convince herself it meant nothing. That it was just a fleeting moment, a misstep in an otherwise carefully choreographed evening.

But Luca knew better.

And now, so did she.

Luca's grip tightened at her silence, frustration flickering across his features. "You're mine, Alessandra." His voice was raw, almost pleading. "Not his."

She should say yes.

She should reassure him.

But she couldn't.

Because no matter how much she wanted to convince herself otherwise… she wasn't his anymore.

She belonged to the shadows.

To Matteo.

And for the first time, Luca knew it too.

His expression hardened, a flash of something vulnerable flickering behind the anger in his gaze. He reached for her chin, tilting her face up to his. "You don't get to do this," he said, his voice rough with restraint. "You don't get to stand there in a dress I picked for you, wearing my ring, and pretend you don't feel anything for me."

His thumb brushed over the curve of her lower lip. A touch meant to remind her. To make her remember.

But all it did was cement the truth.

She didn't feel anything.

Not the way she was supposed to.

Not the way she did with Matteo.

"Luca—"

His mouth hovered inches from hers, hesitation warring with desperation. His grip on her waist tightened. He was waiting—for a sign, for permission, for anything that would tell him she was still his.

But there was nothing left to give.

Alessandra's gaze remained steady, her silence louder than any rejection she could have spoken.

And finally, Luca understood.

His hand dropped away, the fight leaving his body all at once. He stepped back, just enough to put space between them, but not enough to hide the betrayal in his eyes.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You don't even realize what you've done, do you?"

A slow, creeping tension settled between them, thick as smoke.

Alessandra lifted her chin, steadying herself. "I think you should go back to the party, Luca."

His jaw clenched. For a moment, she thought he might argue. That he might push, might demand answers she wasn't ready to give.

But he didn't.

Instead, he turned sharply on his heel, his movements calculated, controlled. The perfect Corsini heir, the man who had everything—except the one thing he truly wanted.

The weight of his absence hit her the second he disappeared down the hall, the sound of his footsteps fading into silence.

Alessandra inhaled deeply, pressing a hand to her chest, as if she could calm the erratic beat of her heart.

Not for Luca.

But for the man waiting in the shadows.

For the man she could no longer resist.

For Matteo.

And somewhere, deep down, she knew—this was only the beginning of her downfall.