The car slowed as they approached the venue.
Mila watched through the window as the lights came into view—soft, golden, spilling out from the entrance like something designed to impress. Valet attendants in black suits moved between cars with practiced efficiency. Security stood at discreet intervals, their postures relaxed but their eyes sharp.
Everything about this place screamed money.
Not new money. Not flashy. Just old, established wealth—the kind that didn't need to announce itself because everyone already knew.
She watched another car pull up ahead of them. A couple stepped out—her in a floor-length gown, him in a tailored tux. They moved toward the entrance like they'd done this a hundred times before.
Mila hadn't.
The car stopped.
Dante opened his door first, stepping out with the same controlled ease he brought to everything. Then he turned back, extending his hand toward her.
She took it.
