Chapter 8: Dressed in His Power

Chapter 8: Dressed in His Power

The fragile truce of the morning had been obliterated by Marco’s arrival. He and Dante stood by the vast window, a pair of dark-suited predators surveying their territory. Their conversation, a low and lethal stream of Italian, was a wall between Jessica and the man who had, just an hour ago, confessed his soul to her. She didn’t need a translator to understand the grim reality of the situation. Marco’s presence was like a cold front, his distrust a palpable force in the room, constantly reminding her that she was the foreign object in their dangerous equation.

Finally, Dante turned from the window. The vulnerability from the morning was gone, replaced by the unyielding steel of a commander. His eyes were dark, resolute, and pinned her where she stood.

“There is a gala tonight,” he announced, his voice devoid of warmth. “The annual Benefactors’ Ball at the museum. We are going.”

Jessica stared at him, bewildered. “Going? Out? Dante, you just told me I was in danger. You locked me in this… this fortress because a man sent me a rose!”

Marco shifted, and though his face remained impassive, his disapproval was a radiating wave. “Dante,” he began, his tone respectful but firm, “forse non è saggio…” Perhaps it is not wise…

Dante cut him off with a sharp, slicing motion of his hand, his eyes never leaving Jessica’s. “It is precisely because of the rose that we are going. They made a threat against what is mine. If I hide you now, it is an admission of fear. It is telling them they have found a weakness. It is an invitation for them to strike again.” He took a step toward her, his logic as brutal and sharp as a shard of glass. “Instead, I will put you on my arm and walk into a room filled with my enemies. I will show them you are not my weakness. You are my strength. My property. And what is mine,” he said, his voice dropping to a low growl, “is untouchable.”

Jessica’s blood ran cold. He wasn’t asking her. He was informing her of her new role in his war. She was no longer just his lover. She was being weaponized, transformed into a shield, a symbol, a declaration.

Before she could protest, he was on the phone, barking orders in Italian. The efficiency of his organization was terrifying. Within the hour, the silent, sterile penthouse was invaded. A team of people—a severe-looking woman with a measuring tape and a pincushion on her wrist, a man with a case of cosmetics that looked like surgical instruments, and two of Dante's stone-faced security guards carrying long, black garment bags—moved with quiet, professional purpose.

They descended upon her like a pit crew. She was led to the master bathroom, a cavern of marble and mirrors, and subjected to their expert ministrations. Her hair was swept up into an intricate style that left her neck bare and vulnerable. Her makeup was applied with an artist’s precision, her eyes made smoky and mysterious, her lips painted a defiant, blood-red. She felt like a doll being prepared for display.

Then came the dress. The stylist unzipped one of the garment bags to reveal a gown of deep sapphire silk that seemed to drink the light. It was stunning, elegant, and impossibly bold. It was not a dress for Jessica Miller, the quiet graphic designer. It was a dress for the woman of Dante Moretti. When she slipped it on, the silk felt like a second skin, cool and heavy. It clung to every curve, its neckline plunging in a way that was both graceful and daring.

She looked in the full-length mirror and the reflection that stared back was a stranger—a polished, formidable woman she didn’t recognize. The insecurity that was her constant companion was gone, papered over with layers of silk and confidence that were not her own.

Dante appeared in the doorway, now dressed in a flawless black tuxedo. He stopped dead, his eyes sweeping over her from head to toe. The air crackled. His gaze was raw, possessive, and filled with a dark, primal pride. He held a flat, black velvet box.

“Turn around,” he commanded softly.

She obeyed, her heart hammering. He stepped behind her, and she felt the cold, heavy weight of a necklace against her skin. He fastened the clasp, his fingers brushing the sensitive nape of her neck, sending a shiver through her. She looked in the mirror. A river of diamonds cascaded down her throat, catching the light and exploding in a thousand tiny fires. They were beautiful, breathtaking, and they felt as heavy as chains.

He placed his hands on her bare shoulders, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection. “Tonight, you are not Jessica Miller,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against her skin. “You are mine. You will walk by my side, and you will not leave it. You will smile, say nothing of consequence, and trust no one but me. Do you understand?”

She could only manage a faint nod, her throat tight. He was dressing her in his power, adorning her with the spoils of his dark kingdom. She was a living trophy, a warning.

The ride to the museum was tense. Dante’s hand rested on her thigh, a constant, grounding pressure. Marco sat in the front seat, silent and watchful, a specter of disapproval.

They bypassed the main entrance, pulling into a private drive where security swarmed. As they stepped out of the car, Jessica was assaulted by a barrage of flashing lights from the press held at bay behind a velvet rope. Dante’s arm slid around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. He guided her forward, a king moving through his court, his expression a mask of bored indifference.

He led her into a grand, vaulted hall buzzing with the quiet hum of immense wealth and power. The air was thick with expensive perfume and the clink of crystal glasses. Men in tuxedos and women dripping in jewels turned as one, their conversations faltering. A hundred pairs of eyes—curious, envious, and predatory—landed on them. On her.

She could feel their gazes like physical touches, appraising her dress, her jewels, her face. They weren't seeing a woman. They were seeing a strategic move. They were calculating her worth, trying to divine her story, searching for the crack in Dante Moretti’s armor that she represented. In this room, she was not a person. She was a statement. A beautiful, vulnerable, walking liability, dressed in his power and put on display for the wolves.