Chapter 148
LEVI
Guards moved like a shadowed tide toward Isabella’s door—precise, silent, inevitable. One pulled it open, another extended a gloved hand to help her step down.
I turned, reached for her, and the moment my hand met hers, the world erupted.
A white-hot storm of light detonated from every direction, the air alive with the electric crackle of camera shutters. Each pop and flash came so fast it was like standing in the middle of a summer lightning storm—metallic, relentless, almost alive. Even the sun seemed to dim compared to it.
“Levi! Levi! Over here!” “Levi, look this way!”
The shouts tore at the night, reporters lunging forward as if the right photograph might rewrite their careers.
I recognized most of them—faces I’d seen at countless events—but not one of them had been invited. That meant only one thing.
My father.
They should know me well enough by now to understand I don’t answer to the media.
“Levi!”—it came again and again, my name battering the air. Annoying, yes. But also proof I’d done my job well.
I’d made sure Isabella’s name hadn’t leaked. She wasn’t a public figure, wasn’t born into this world, and I could tell she was afraid of it. She didn’t need it. I could take every hit the press threw at me—but she? She deserved to be protected from this circus. From being chewed up, picked apart, reduced to a headline.
Especially when this marriage—no matter how much I tried to make it seem real—was still a contract. I knew she’d want her normal life back when it was all over.
And yet, even without knowing her name, their cameras clung to her like she was the only source of oxygen in the room. She looked too good—dangerously good. And I knew what that meant. Tonight’s frenzy would ripple outward, and soon someone would dig. Someone would try to know her story.
How we met. Who she was before me. Who she’d dated. Her family. Her friends.
Part of me wanted to know those things, too. The other part—the one watching the way they’d twist her story—felt a sharp, sudden irritation.
I’d already decided: I was going to have a long, unpleasant conversation with my father about boundaries. And I’d triple the precautions for the wedding next week. This? This was never happening again.
Another volley of flashes struck. Isabella’s body tensed beside me—so subtly most wouldn’t notice. But I did. I always did.
I leaned in, close enough for my breath to stir the silk strands at her temple, my mouth brushing the delicate shell of her ear. My voice was low, for her alone.
“You have nothing to be nervous about,” I murmured, slow and deliberate, each word meant to anchor her in me, not them. “You are the embodiment of beauty—the height of everything that has ever been and will ever be beautiful. Every single person staring at you tonight is enthralled because they’ve never seen anything like you. And if anyone here dares to aim for perfection, they’ll still find themselves miles beneath you.”
Her head turned just enough for our eyes to lock. The tension in her shoulders eased, replaced by something quieter. Warmer. Her lips curved in a small, almost secret smile—devastating all the same.
And just like that, the chaos outside didn’t matter. Not to her. Not to me.
Our earlier fight—set aside for now—was buried beneath the role I had to play tonight. I was her fiancé. And I would play the part well.
We stepped forward together, my hand warm at the small of her back as security formed a living barrier around us. The heavy glass doors opened before we reached them, and we stepped inside.
Opulence didn’t just whisper here—it demanded attention.
Crystal chandeliers spilled from the ceiling like frozen fireworks, every droplet of glass catching the light and scattering it across the room. Black velvet draped the tables in deep, shadowed folds, drawing the eye to the flicker of candle flames and the gleam of gold-edged crystal.
In the corner, a small orchestra played as if the night itself were their stage. A grand piano whispered under the skilled hands of a man in a crisp white tuxedo, each note spilling like warm honey into the air. Violins sighed in elegant unison, flutes wove in silver ribbons of sound, and somewhere, a contralto singer in white let her voice melt into the harmony—slow, deliberate, and aching with intimacy.
The music moved like a slow tide, pulling people closer together, softening their edges, coaxing them into low laughter and lingering glances. It was the kind of sound that didn’t just fill the room—it transformed it, lifting everyone into a world far above the mundane. A world rich with beauty, grace, and the intoxication of being alive.
The air itself was decadent—thick with the earthy perfume of truffle oil drifting from polished silver trays, laced with the faint, heady bite of expensive cigars. Beneath it all lingered that rarefied, almost invisible scent of old money and influence—the aroma of power dressed in elegance.
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