Dante didn't warn her.
One moment Camille was adjusting her bracelet in the mirrored elevator wall, the next he was gripping her waist and pulling her closer close enough for her breath to catch.
"We're being watched," he murmured, voice low, warm, and aggravatingly calm.
Camille's heartbeat stumbled. She didn't dare look around, but she felt it. The weight of curious eyes. The hush of wealthy gossip. They had stepped into the ballroom only seconds ago, and already the vultures of high society hovered.
She forced a breath. "So what? Let them watch."
His lips tilted, not quite a smile more like a challenge. "They expect a united front. Don't make me drag you through this."
"You didn't drag me," she said under her breath. "I walked in here just fine."
But he didn't loosen his hold. In fact, he slid his hand from her waist to the small of her back, guiding her forward with the kind of confidence that made her pulse jump for reasons she refused to name.
The entire room shifted when they entered subtle, but undeniable. Conversations paused. Heads turned. The Moretti heir had arrived. And beside him, the woman who wasn't supposed to be brave enough to stand in a room full of people who whispered about her.
She lifted her chin higher.
If they wanted a show, she'd give them one.
Dante bent slightly, his breath brushing her ear. "Smile."
She didn't. Instead, she whispered back, "You don't tell me what to do."
A glint sparked in his eyes. Not anger something sharper, warmer. "Then try not to look like you want to stab someone."
Her lips curved despite herself. "Only you."
"Good. At least keep it consistent."
They moved deeper into the hall, and people began greeting Dante with overpolished smiles and artificial warmth. Camille felt the weight of every stare, every whisper, every person doubting whether she belonged at his side.
But she refused to shrink.
Her fingers brushed Dante's sleeve barely a touch, barely a breath of contact but he immediately looked down at her, eyes narrowing, focused. Too focused.
He felt everything.
A waiter passed with champagne flutes. Camille reached for one, but Dante got there first, taking two glasses and handing her one carefully, as if hundreds of eyes weren't dissecting every movement.
"Play your role," he murmured.
"Oh, I'm playing," she said. "Maybe better than you."
He took a slow sip, eyes never leaving hers. "Careful."
But Camille stepped closer instead too close for comfort, too close for him to remain unaffected. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, the kind of touch that could be interpreted as affection or defiance.
His jaw flexed.
Good, she thought. Let him feel unsteady for once.
A high voice broke the moment.
"Dante, darling! I didn't know you were bringing… company."
A woman approached tall, elegant, dressed like she owned the room. Her eyes skimmed Camille with a smile sharp enough to cut.
Dante didn't release Camille's hand. Instead, he shifted subtly, positioning her slightly in front of him, as if she mattered. As if she was the one being presented, not judged.
"This is my wife," he said, smooth and cool. "Camille."
The woman blinked one, two times before recovering her composure. "Oh. Right. The… sudden marriage."
Camille met her gaze head-on. "Sudden things tend to be the most memorable."
The woman's smile faltered.
Dante leaned closer, lowering his voice for Camille alone. "You enjoy watching people choke on their own words?"
"Almost as much as you do," she replied.
He tried not to smile. Failed. Barely.
They moved on, weaving through the crowd. But Camille noticed something she hadn't expected people didn't just stare. They reacted. Some assessed her like competition. Some glared. Some looked startled that she wasn't the timid, broken woman they assumed she'd be.
The humiliation she'd suffered the betrayal hadn't crushed her.
She was here. Beside the devil heir. Holding her own.
And Dante… he noticed.
Every time someone looked at her too long, his hand tightened on her waist. Every time someone whispered, his gaze flicked sharply in their direction. Protective, territorial, or just upset at losing control she couldn't tell.
But she felt it.
In the tension of his fingertips. In the way he lowered his voice when speaking to her. In the way he kept leaning in, as if forgetting this was supposed to be an act.
The orchestra shifted to a slow, elegant piece.
Camille sighed. "You're not about to make me dance, are you?"
"You hate dancing?" he asked.
"No. I hate dancing with people who think they own the room."
"Good," he murmured. "Because I only own you for tonight."
She stepped on his foot.
He didn't flinch. Just laughed under his breath quiet, soft, real.
Then he held out his hand.
Not commanding her. Not dragging her.
Offering.
And that more than anything unnerved her.
She hesitated, breath catching. For a second too long.
Dante noticed.
He lowered his voice, steady and warm. "If anyone's watching, they'll wonder why the wife of Dante Moretti looks like she wants to run."
"I'm not running," she whispered.
"Then come here."
The way he said it low, certain, threaded with a heat he didn't bother hiding sent a tremor through her chest.
Camille placed her hand in his.
He pulled her into the dance.
Their bodies aligned automatically, closer than they had been all night, closer than either of them had prepared for. His hand rested at the curve of her back, fingers steady, confident. Not forcing her guiding her.
Her pulse stuttered.
"Eyes up," he murmured. "Look at me."
She did.
And for a moment, the rest of the ballroom vanished. There was only the music, his breath brushing her cheek, the heat between them, the quiet storm building in the inches that separated them.
His thumb brushed lightly against her waist.
Not enough to be inappropriate just enough to feel intentional.
Camille's breath hitched.
Dante's gaze darkened, like he'd heard it.
"You're doing well," he said quietly.
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not. I'm… impressed."
She blinked, startled by the sincerity in his tone. No mockery. No edge.
Real.
She hated how much it meant.
"Don't get used to it," she said, voice softer than she intended.
"Too late," he whispered.
The song ended.
But neither of them stepped away.
Not immediately.
Not until someone cleared their throat behind them, reminding them they weren't alone.
They pulled apart slowly too slowly for two people pretending.
Too slowly for two people who insisted they couldn't stand each other.
Dante leaned down. "If this is an act, Camille… you're playing dangerously well."
Her heart hammered.
"Right back at you."