Crown of ashes

I hated these parties.

Everyone else seemed to float through the Rossi Hotel ballroom like they belonged here—draped in silk gowns and designer tuxedos, laughing too loudly, trading smiles that meant nothing. I sat at our family’s table with a glass of champagne I hadn’t touched, watching the crystal chandelier glitter above us like frozen fire.

My father thrived in this world. Enzo Moretti lived for the handshakes, the false promises, the power hidden behind every smile. To him, tonight was business disguised as celebration. To me, it was suffocating.

The dress he’d chosen for me—a silver satin thing that clung to my body in ways that made me feel exposed—sparkled under the light. I tugged at the hem when no one was looking. My mother said it made me look like a queen. I felt more like a pawn.

“Smile, Elena,” my father murmured beside me without turning his head. His glass was raised toward another businessman across the room, his teeth flashing in that practiced grin I knew too well. “People are watching.”

I forced my lips into a small curve, but it didn’t reach my eyes. It never did.

The string quartet played something soft and elegant, but the notes blended into the hum of voices and clinking glasses. I tried to let my gaze drift, searching for anything to anchor me, when it happened—

I felt him before I saw him.

It was strange, like a shift in the air, as though the room suddenly tilted toward a new center of gravity. My eyes moved on their own, scanning past glittering gowns and sleek suits until they stopped.

And there he was.

Tall. Dark. Unbothered by the noise around him. A black suit molded to broad shoulders, his hands loose at his sides, his face carved from stone. Even from across the room, his presence was magnetic, dangerous, the kind of man people instinctively noticed but were too afraid to stare at for long.

My breath caught.

Damian Rossi.

The name flashed in my memory like a spark on dry wood. We hadn’t spoken in years—not since we were younger, when my father kept me far away from the Rossi family. Back then, Damian had been little more than a rumor, the son of Marco Rossi, the boy who vanished from society after tragedy struck.

And now… now he was here, and he was no boy anymore.

His eyes found me across the crowd, sharp as a blade. My skin prickled under the weight of his stare. For one foolish second, the noise around me faded until it was only him and me, as though the distance between us had collapsed.

I tore my gaze away, heart pounding, fingers tightening on the stem of my glass. I shouldn’t look at him. I shouldn’t even think about him.

But when I dared to glance back, he was already moving.

My father noticed first. His smile faltered as Damian approached, though he recovered quickly, rising to greet him like an old friend.

“Damian Rossi,” my father said warmly, extending his hand. “The man of the hour himself. Congratulations on the hotel’s anniversary. A fine legacy you’ve built.”

“Enzo,” Damian replied smoothly, his voice low and even. He took my father’s hand, his expression unreadable. “It’s been a long time.”

I sat frozen, pulse hammering in my ears. He hadn’t looked at me yet. Not directly. And somehow, that was worse.

Finally, his gaze shifted.

“Elena.” My name on his lips was both a greeting and a claim. His eyes lingered on me, dark and unwavering, and I had the unsettling feeling that he could see right through me.

“Mr. Rossi,” I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. I set my glass down carefully, afraid my trembling hand would betray me.

My father’s laugh filled the silence. “My daughter’s grown into a fine woman, hasn’t she? Though you wouldn’t have noticed—your empire keeps you too busy for such things.”

Damian’s mouth curved slightly, but his eyes never left mine. “Oh, I’ve noticed.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks before I could stop it. I dropped my gaze to the tablecloth, wishing the ground would swallow me whole. What did he mean by that?

“Enjoy the evening,” Damian said, his tone polite but cool. He straightened, giving my father a nod, then turned and walked away without another word.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“Stay away from him,” my father muttered under his breath, his smile never faltering for the guests nearby. “The Rossis are not our friends.”

I swallowed hard, nodding even as my thoughts spun. My father’s warning should have reassured me, but instead it left me shaken.

Because in that brief moment, under the weight of Damian Rossi’s gaze, I hadn’t felt fear.

I’d felt… something else. Something dangerous. Something I didn’t dare name.

And I knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning.