The chandelier cast a thousand diamond-like reflections across the ballroom, its brilliance a sharp contrast to the unease tightening in Camilla Hart's chest. Her mother's voice floated over the crowd like a hawk circling its prey.
"Camilla, darling, posture!" Marjorie Hart's tone was cutting, though her smile remained fixed. "A Hart must always make an impression."
Camilla straightened instinctively, smoothing the silk of her pale blue gown. The weight of her family's wealth clung to her like the heavy pearl necklace around her neck. She glanced around the room at the glittering sea of socialites—smiling, laughing, scheming. Everyone here wanted something.
She didn't. At least, not this life.
Her younger brother, Charles, brushed past her, laughing too loudly at something a senator's son had said. Camilla envied his confidence, even if it was fueled by arrogance. She sipped her champagne to blend in, the bubbles sharp against her tongue.
"Camilla, don't stand there like a statue," her mother hissed, appearing at her side. "Go speak to Lawrence. His family's investment firm could secure our next acquisition."
"I'm not interested in Lawrence," she murmured.
"Don't be ridiculous." Marjorie's hand gripped her elbow, too firm to be maternal. "You need to think of your future. Of this family's future."
Camilla pulled away, the motion small but defiant. "Excuse me. I need some air."
Without waiting for her mother's reply, she slipped through the gilded doors leading to the terrace. The cool night air was a balm against the suffocating expectations inside.
She leaned against the railing, gazing at the city skyline. Somewhere out there, real life was happening—messy, unpolished, free. Not this carefully constructed facade.
"You look like you're ready to jump," a smooth voice said.
Startled, she turned to find a man leaning casually against the stone pillar. His dark hair was tousled, the kind that fell effortlessly into place, and his deep brown eyes gleamed with a mix of mischief and intensity. His features were sharp, almost wolfish, softened only by the faintest hint of a smirk. He was impossibly handsome in a way that felt dangerous, like a fire you couldn't help but touch.
"I didn't mean to scare you," he added, raising his hands in mock surrender.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice cautious but steady.
"Someone who knows what it's like to want to escape." His smirk softened into something gentler. "Let's just say I'm... a guest of a guest."
Camilla frowned but didn't press. Something about him was disarming, and she wasn't sure if that was comforting or dangerous.
"Camilla!" her mother's voice rang out from inside.
Her stomach sank. The man tilted his head, studying her.
"Looks like the queen's calling," he said. "You better get back to the ball, Cinderella."
"Maybe I don't want to."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek black card.
"If you ever want to stop pretending, call me."
Camilla hesitated before taking it, their fingers brushing briefly. The name on the card was a single word: Dante.
"Why would I call you?" she asked, testing the weight of the card in her hand.
He smiled, a slow curve of his lips. "Because you're looking for something real. And I'm very, very good at providing what people need."
Before she could respond, he turned and disappeared into the shadows.