LUCA

The world stares at her.

That’s the first thing I notice when we enter the Winter Charity Gala — Elena on my arm, shoulders bare under a backless black dress that should be illegal. Soft curls, red lips, that quiet light in her eyes that could bring nations to their knees.

For five years I’ve watched men stare at her from a distance.

Tonight they stare while she’s with me.

And I am one breath away from violence.

“Elena Moretti?” someone whispers. “With Luca Volkov? Again?”

“Thought they ended—”

“They didn’t,” I cut in coldly, loud enough for the nearest guests to hear. “They were interrupted.”

Elena squeezes my arm gently — a warning. She thinks I might snap.

She’s right.

My hand stays at her lower back like a promise—and a threat to anyone who tries to look twice. I escort her through the ballroom, ignoring the cameras, ignoring the press, ignoring everyone except the woman who once looked at me like I was her whole world.

“Luca,” she murmurs. “People are staring.”

“Let them.” My voice is quiet, vicious. “If they want a show, I’ll give them a show.”

She blushes, and God, I feel that in every bone.

An orchestra plays something slow. I offer my hand.

“Elena.”

She hesitates — not because she doesn’t want me, but because she’s afraid of being hurt again. Afraid of making this real.

I step closer, voice barely a breath.

“No fear. Not tonight.”

She places her hand in mine.

We dance.

The room disappears. The world disappears. It’s just her body fitting into mine like she never left. Her eyes meeting mine like she remembers every moment, every laugh, every wound.

“You’re shaking,” I whisper.

“So are you.”

The truth sits heavy in my chest, burning through me until I can’t hold it in anymore.

“I love you.”

Her breath catches.

My voice is steady — the voice of a man who has already lost everything and survived it.

“I loved you then. I love you now. And I will love you for whatever is left of my life.”

Her eyes glisten, but before she can speak—

Matteo Moretti appears.

He grabs Elena’s wrist. “We’re leaving.”

My vision goes black.

I take his wrist, twist, and remove his hand from her body without raising my voice.

“She’s not leaving with you.”

“You don’t get a say,” he snarls. “You broke her. Twice.”

“And I will spend the rest of my life fixing what I broke.”

Guests freeze. Photographers raise their cameras.

Elena steps between us — voice steady, heartbreaking, strong.

“I decide who I leave with. Not you. Not him.”

She turns… and chooses.

She takes my hand.

Matteo looks like I shot him. “He will ruin you.”

Elena’s voice is soft — but it shakes the entire ballroom.

“He already did. And I survived. Now it’s my turn to ruin him.”

The crowd gasps.

I swear I stop breathing.

She faces me, and everything else fades. Cameras flash. Phones record. People whisper, judge, obsess.

None of it matters.

“Elena,” I murmur, hand cupping her waist.

“Yes?”

“If we do this, we don’t hide. Not anymore.”

She nods once — no fear, no doubt.

“Together,” she whispers. “No more hiding.”

I kiss her.

In the middle of the Winter Gala. In front of the world. In front of every man who ever wanted her. In front of every enemy waiting to use her against me.

Her arms wrap around my neck. My body cages hers. Cameras explode in bursts of light. The whole ballroom erupts.

And I don’t stop.

Because this time I’m not choosing silence.

I’m choosing her.

When I pull back, I keep my forehead against hers, voice raw enough to bleed.

“If the world wants a war for loving you, let them come.”

She smiles — broken and brave and mine.

“We’ll win.”

And I believe her.