The price of Fame

The soft light of dawn filtered through the grand windows of Matteo's estate, casting a golden hue over the room. Alessandra stirred, the warmth of his embrace still lingering on her skin. She had dozed off in Matteo's arms, the exhaustion of the night before finally catching up with her.

Matteo hadn't slept.

Instead, he had spent the night replaying Luca's words in his mind.

"Tell my brother to put a ring on you, Alessandra. Then you'll see just how fucked up you are for choosing him over me."

His jaw clenched. Marriage had never been a consideration for him—it was a cage, a contract that bound people into misery. But Alessandra? She deserved the best. And if marriage was what it took to secure her place beside him, then he would… No. He hated the idea. He despised the chains it represented.

But losing her?

That was not an option.

Alessandra stirred in his arms, her lashes fluttering as she slowly opened her eyes. She blinked up at him, her lips curving into a soft, sleepy smile. "You didn't sleep," she murmured.

He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch lingering. "Didn't want to."

She arched a brow. "You enjoy watching me sleep that much?"

Matteo smirked. "I enjoy knowing you're safe."

A warmth spread through her chest. She reached up, tracing his jaw with her fingers. "You're dangerous when you get all protective like this."

His expression darkened with something unreadable. "And yet you still don't run."

Alessandra smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw before pulling away. "I have a show today, remember?"

Matteo sighed, his fingers tightening around her waist. "I don't like you going without me."

She chuckled, slipping out of bed. "I'm a supermodel, Matteo. I don't need my mafia boss boyfriend escorting me everywhere like a bodyguard."

' Boyfriend , she didn't even know it that was what their relationship was '

His eyes flickered with something unreadable before he smirked. "I still don't like it."

"Too bad." She winked, heading for the bathroom.

As the door clicked shut, Matteo ran a hand down his face. She was slipping into a world where he had no control—where cameras and flashing lights replaced bullets and blood. And it unnerved him.

The Zenith Runway Show was not just a fashion event—it was the fashion event. Held once a year in Volgaria, it was the epitome of wealth, power, and prestige, where only the elite secured an invitation. Celebrities, royalty, billionaires, and Forbes' most influential figures gathered to witness the pinnacle of haute couture.

The venue itself was a masterpiece—an opulent glass dome with cascading chandeliers that shimmered like falling stars. A grand runway stretched across the hall, bordered by golden floral arrangements and LED panels that displayed the designers' names in elegant script. The air buzzed with anticipation, cameras flashing as guests arrived in designer ensembles worth millions.

Alessandra Ricci was the star of the night.

The moment she stepped onto the runway, the atmosphere shifted.

A wave of applause erupted, followed by a chorus of cheers—her name chanted like a melody among the crowd.

"ALESSANDRA! ALESSANDRA!"

She walked with the effortless grace of a queen, her long legs accentuated by a shimmering custom gown—a masterpiece designed exclusively for her by the legendary Marcello Vonté. The fabric hugged her curves, gliding over her skin like liquid gold. Diamond accents lined the edges, catching the light with every step she took.

The audience was mesmerized.

Cameras flashed. Fashion moguls whispered. The media scrambled to capture every second, knowing this moment would dominate headlines for weeks.

In the VIP section, designers, celebrities, and CEOs leaned forward, their eyes locked onto the runway. Among them was Bianca, her assistant, standing near the backstage entrance with an earpiece, making sure every detail was executed flawlessly.

A panel of Forbes executives exchanged approving glances. This was history in the making.

Alessandra's walk was impeccable—each step deliberate, each turn commanding. She was not just wearing the dress; she was owning it. She was the show.

And when she reached the end of the runway, she paused—her gaze sweeping over the audience before offering them a knowing, sultry smile.

The crowd erupted into a standing ovation.

The world had fallen at her feet.

Backstage

Bianca rushed to her side the moment she stepped off the runway, a proud grin on her face. "You killed it out there!"

Alessandra exhaled, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips. "It felt good."

"Good? Alessandra, you just made history! The media is going crazy—Forbes is already drafting an article about you being the highest-paid supermodel of the decade."

Alessandra laughed, the adrenaline still thrumming in her veins. She accepted a bottle of water from a staff member, taking a long sip before turning to Bianca.

"Tell them to use a good picture of me, then."

Bianca smirked. "They'll be using every picture of you they can get."

Alessandra rolled her eyes, about to respond—when her phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen.

Her blood ran cold.

Leonardo Ricci.

She hesitated for a brief second before answering.

"Alessandra."

Her grandfather's voice was sharp, devoid of warmth just as always .

"Nonno," she greeted cautiously.

"You will return home immediately after the show."

Her grip on the phone tightened. "I—"

"No arguments." His voice hardened. "I let you play your little games. I let you build your career. But this, running away from Luca—this ends now."

Her pulse pounded in her ears. "You can't just—"

"I can do whatever the fuck I want. You are a Ricci. And a Ricci does not disobey the family without consequences."

Her breath hitched. "What consequences?"

A pause.

Then, cold and lethal—"If you don't board that plane tonight, your career will be over. Every contract, every endorsement, every designer who has ever worked with you—gone."

Alessandra's stomach twisted. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

A shiver ran down her spine. Her grandfather was not a man who made empty threats.

"The media adores you, Alessandra. But it only takes one whisper—one carefully placed article—to ruin everything you've built."

A lump formed in her throat.

"I have given you power. And I can take it away."

She squeezed her eyes shut. This was the price of fame. She had always known it—had always felt the invisible leash around her neck. But now? Now it was tightening.

"I expect you on a flight to Italy by midnight."

The line went dead.

Alessandra stood there, phone clutched in her trembling fingers, her breath shallow.

For the first time in her career—she had everything.

And in one night, she could lose it all.