“Wear That Dress Again and You’re Mine,” the Mafia Boss Warned—So She Did

The emerald green dress was my secret weapon. The tight fabric hugged every curve of my body like a second skin, and the V-neckline plunged in a way that bordered on obscene without ever crossing the line. Dorian Esposito wouldn’t be able to ignore this.

Henry was sitting on my bed, legs crossed, as he watched me spin in front of the mirror with the expression of someone watching the best reality show of his life. “Girl, this dress is going to be a crime for him,” he said, and I could hear the obvious approval in his voice.

“Dorian is going to have a heart attack when he sees you,” Henry added. “That’s exactly what I want,” I replied, adjusting the neckline one more time and feeling the fabric slide against my skin in a way that made me feel powerful and dangerous at the same time.

Deb was leaning against my bedroom doorframe, arms crossed, wearing that worried expression she always had when I was about to dive headfirst into something she considered potentially self-destructive. “Angel, Dorian is going to completely lose it,” Deb said, her voice loaded with genuine concern.

“You know he gets possessive, and he has no right to be possessive because he’s practically engaged to Greta,” she warned. I stopped looking at myself in the mirror and turned to face her, feeling that familiar wave of stubbornness rise through my chest.

“Practically isn’t actually engaged,” I said, my voice filled with defiance. “And until he officially marries that cold snake, I have every right to play whatever game I want to play.” Henry clapped dramatically, a gesture he always made when he approved of my most questionable decisions.

“Exactly. You two are complete idiots who won’t admit you desperately want each other, so someone has to force the situation, and that someone is you in that devastating dress.” “We can’t want each other,” I murmured, grabbing my small purse.

“The families are incompatible. The worlds are completely different. And he has Greta waiting for him with a marriage contract already signed by the families.” “And you have that dress,” Henry retorted, adjusting a strand of my hair. “Let’s end him once and for all.”

The office on the upper floor of Eclipse was a sanctuary of luxury, offering a perfect view of the dance floor below. Dorian was sitting at the dark mahogany desk, surrounded by associates, but his mind was anywhere but on the business at hand.

The meeting was dragging, full of details that today seemed to slide through his mind without leaving a mark. He was restless, possessed by a strange feeling that something was about to happen. The office door opened without warning, and a guard entered.

“Boss,” the guard said, and Dorian felt his heart race. “Angel Sharman just arrived downstairs with her friends.” Dorian kept his expression neutral, even as everything inside him began to boil. “And?” he asked, his tone too casual to be true.

“She’s different today, boss. Green dress, pretty eye-catching. She’s getting a lot of attention,” the guard reported. Dorian felt his jaw lock. She was wearing green, and he knew it would be the kind of green that made every man in the club look twice.

“Understood,” he said, his voice rough. “The meeting is over.” Alone, Dorian immediately turned to the security cameras. There she was, Angel Sharman in all her provocative glory, laughing and dancing, completely free.

“She’s testing me,” Dorian murmured to himself, watching her spin. She knew exactly what she was doing. I knew the dress was doing its job the moment we walked into Eclipse. The club was filled with the city’s elite, oblivious to the shady business happening upstairs.

“Half the club is already looking at you,” Henry whispered in my ear, and I smiled because that was the plan. Deb pointed toward the dark glass of the VIP office. “He’s up there, and I bet you anything he already knows you’re here. He’s watching you.”

I looked up at the glass, smiling in a way I knew was provocative. If he was watching, I was going to put on a show he’d never forget. I let the music take over my body, dancing just enough to be impossible to ignore.

A man approached me, his smile overly confident. “Hi, can I buy you a drink?” he asked, his hand reaching out to touch my arm. “Thanks, but no need,” I replied, trying to pull away politely. He didn’t get the message, squeezing my arm.

Suddenly, Dorian materialized beside me. His voice was pure ice. “She said no, so you leave now.” The man recognized him instantly, his face draining of color. “Sorry, boss. I didn’t know she was—” “She’s nothing of mine,” Dorian cut him off.

“But you’re in my club, and I’m telling you to leave now before I lose my patience.” The man fled, and I turned to face Dorian. He was more intense up close than I remembered, his eyes fixed on me with a mixture of desire and irritation.

“Hi, Dorian,” I said, my tone intentionally provocative. “Didn’t know you were here.” “Liar,” he replied, his eyes tracing my body. “You knew exactly I was here, and that’s why you came dressed like this.” “It’s just a dress,” I insisted with false innocence.

“It’s a provocation,” Dorian corrected, stepping so close I could smell his expensive cologne. “And you know exactly what you’re doing.” I heard Henry whisper to Deb, “The sexual tension here is so palpable I could cut it with a knife.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Angel,” Dorian growled. “I’m not playing anything,” I lied. “I’m just enjoying the show.” “The problem is that half the men here are looking at you like you’re something they could have,” he said, his possessiveness showing.

“And I don’t like sharing what’s mine.” I raised an eyebrow, challenging him. “I’m not yours, Dorian. You have Greta, remember?” His jaw locked. “Greta is complicated.” “Then uncomplicated,” I challenged. “Or leave me alone once and for all.”

“I tried to leave you alone,” he said, his voice revealing a raw honesty that caught me off guard. “But you’re the one who won’t let me.” “Then stop looking,” I provoked. Dorian laughed, a humorless sound. “Impossible. You know it’s completely impossible.”

The music slowed, and Dorian extended his hand. “Dance with me.” It was a command. “Why?” I asked, though I knew I would accept. “Because if you’re going to provoke, do it under my supervision, where I can control who touches you.”

I placed my hand in his, feeling the familiar shock of electricity. He pulled me onto the floor, his hands finding my waist. “You look beautiful,” he whispered against my ear. “Devastatingly beautiful and completely forbidden.”

“Then why are you holding me like this?” I asked. “Because I’m weak when it comes to you,” he admitted, a vulnerability appearing that hit me like a punch. “And you know exactly that and use it against me.”

“We stayed once,” he said, referring to the kiss from a year ago. “I think about it every day.” “Me, too,” I admitted. “Then why don’t we—” he started. “Because you’re going to marry Greta,” I interrupted. “Because we’re completely impossible.”

“What if I didn’t care about impossible?” he asked, squeezing my waist. “But you do care,” I replied, forcing myself to be the voice of reason. “Your family needs the alliance.” “Your father doesn’t know half the things you do,” he countered.

When the music ended, he didn’t let go. “Leave, Angel,” he said, his voice filled with reluctance. “Now, before I do something we’ll both regret.” “Like what?” I challenged. “Like taking you to my office and showing you exactly what this dress does to me.”

His honesty left me breathless. “Is that a threat or a promise?” “Both,” he said. I pulled away, then leaned in to whisper, “Meet me outside in 10 minutes.” I was waiting by my car when he exited the club, his control clearly gone.

He pulled me against him, pinning me to the car. “If I catch you wearing this dress again, I’ll rip it off you with my teeth, and I don’t care who’s watching.” I laughed, the sound provocative. “Is that a promise?” “It’s a warning.”

“What if I wear it again just to test?” I teased. “Then you’ll find out if I’m bluffing,” he replied. I touched his chest, feeling his heart race. “You never bluff.” “No,” he agreed, “especially not when it comes to you.”

“This is complete madness,” he admitted. “I know,” I said. “I want you,” he confessed, “so much it scares me.” “Then have me,” I urged. He closed his eyes. “Not here. You deserve better than a parking lot.” He kissed my forehead gently.

“Go home,” he said, stepping back. “Before I lose all the reason I have left.” “Okay, but this isn’t over,” I said. “It never ends with you,” he replied. I drove away, knowing in my heart that this was only the beginning.

Days later, Dorian was at a dinner with both families, negotiating the contract for his marriage to Greta. The table was filled with luxury, but the conversation was about his future, a future he didn’t want. Greta sat beside him, wearing her fake smile.

“Wedding in three months,” his father decreed. Dorian murmured agreement, but he looked bored and disconnected. Greta placed her hand on his, a performative gesture. “It’ll be perfect, darling.” Dorian withdrew his hand, creating distance.

Three days had passed since the club, and I hadn’t stopped thinking about him. Henry was on my couch that Thursday when he dropped the news. “He’s there right now, with her, planning the wedding.” Jealousy and helplessness settled in my chest like a weight.

“I know,” I said, trying to stay calm. “He made his choice.” Henry was indignant. “He didn’t choose anything! He was forced by these absurd mafia things.” “The result is the same,” I said. “He’s getting married, and I lose him for good.”

Saturday, Henry appeared with a grin. “Dorian’s at the family beach house. Alone.” My heart raced. “Alone?” “Completely,” Henry confirmed. “Perfect for a surprise visit.” I didn’t hesitate. I sent a message: “Heard you’re at the beach, alone, bored.”

“Who told you?” he replied. “Sources. Can I come? I promise to behave.” There was a long pause. “Liar. You never behave.” “So that’s a yes?” “Yes, come.” The beach house was beautiful, all light tones and ocean views.

Dorian opened the door, and the relief on his face was clear. “You came.” “I said I would,” I replied. “This house is gorgeous.” “Family inheritance,” he explained. “I come here when I need to think.” “About Greta?” I asked.

His expression tensed. “Among other things.” “Are you really going to marry her?” “I don’t have a choice.” “What do you want?” I insisted. He looked at me with that disarming intensity. “You know what I want, but I can’t have it.”

I went to my room, and later, we had dinner. The chemistry between us was undeniable. We watched a movie, sitting on the couch with a distance that kept closing. “I’m going to take a shower,” I said, desperate to keep my control.

The plan formed while the water ran. I grabbed the smallest towel I had and walked to his bedroom, knocking softly. “Dorian, do you have conditioner?” He turned, his eyes widening as he took in my appearance.

“Sorry,” I said with false innocence. “Didn’t know you were like this.” “And you’re like that,” he replied, his jaw locking. “It’s just a towel,” I said, walking toward the master bathroom. “Playing what?” I asked when he stopped me.

The towel slipped slightly, and I had to grab it. His hands caught my arm. “Stop.” “Stop what?” “This towel. Here. In my room.” “Sorry, it was an accident.” He laughed without humor. “Nothing with you is an accident. You provoke on purpose.”

I moved closer. “Is it working?” “Very much,” he admitted. “But I won’t. I can’t.” He pulled away. “Go to your room.” I left him there, knowing I had won the first round of our game.

The next morning, the air between us had shifted. We spent the day on the beach, and it felt natural, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. We swam and laughed, and for a moment, I felt a sense of peace.

Later, we sat on the sand, and he turned to me. “I was just thinking that this moment is the closest to peace I’ve felt in a long time.” I felt my heart ache. “Why do you keep stopping?” I asked later, unable to hide my frustration.

“Because if I start,” he said, his voice husky, “I won’t be able to stop.” What we didn’t know was that a paparazzi had been watching. A photo of our intimate day on the beach appeared in the press, and it was too obvious to be ignored.

Greta called while we were in the kitchen. Dorian put it on speaker, realizing too late. “Who is she?” Greta asked. “No one. A friend.” “Photos say otherwise,” she retorted. “I’m not an idiot, Dorian. If you break this contract, your family suffers.”

“Stay away from her, Dorian, or I’ll make you stay away, and I guarantee you won’t like my methods.” The call ended, and the silence was heavy. “She threatened you,” Dorian said, his knuckles white.

“Just disappear from your life like none of this happened?” I asked, hating the tremor in my voice. “Maybe we should stop this,” he said, his pain evident. “Do you want to stop?” “No,” he admitted. “But I can’t put you in danger.”

“What if we had three months?” I asked. “Give me those three months, and then, when you get married, I promise I’ll move on.” “You think I’ll be able to forget you?” he asked. “Then give me that memory,” I insisted.

“Three months,” he finally said. “Three months that are ours, secret.” He pulled me into a kiss that was desperate, filled with everything we couldn’t say out loud. “This is going to end up destroying me,” he murmured. “Then we’ll be destroyed together.”

Three weeks passed, and our secret life was intense and exhausting. We met in hidden hotels, always checking for eyes that might be watching. It was a life of stolen moments and constant fear, but I loved him, and that was enough.

My mother, however, was starting to notice. During a Sunday family dinner, she confronted me. “You’ve been different lately. Happier, but absent.” “It’s work, Mom,” I said, trying to deflect. “Are you seeing someone?” “Mother’s intuition,” she said.

“Is it someone appropriate?” I lied. “Yes, very appropriate.” She wasn’t convinced, but she let it go. “Be careful, dear. Wrong men seem right at first, and it’s only when you’re involved that the truth appears.”

That night, I met Dorian. “Does your mom suspect?” “No, she’s obsessed with the wedding.” He paused. “Ten weeks left.” “Don’t talk about that,” I said. “Every moment with you is precious because it’s temporary,” he said. “I love you,” I confessed.

“I love you, too,” he replied, saying the words for the first time. “I hate that I’m going to have to let you go.” The next morning, I watched him sleep, knowing that every memory would be precious.

The next day started too calmly. I was leaving work when a luxury car blocked my exit. Greta stepped out, elegant and ice-cold. “We need to talk,” she said. “About you staying away from Dorian. Immediately and permanently.”

“I know everything,” she continued. “Hotel records, photos. You’re his mistress.” I didn’t deny it. “So what?” “So what?” she screamed. “The wedding is in nine weeks! You’ll be just a temporary distraction.”

“Then why are you here?” I challenged. “Because he looks at you differently,” she admitted. “And I don’t accept that. Stay away, or I’ll tell your father. Richard Sharman wouldn’t love knowing his daughter is involved with a mob boss.”

I felt genuine fear. “You wouldn’t.” “Try me. You have 48 hours.” I called Dorian immediately. “Greta threatened me.” He was furious. “Go home. Lock the doors. I’ll handle this.” I drove home in a state of shock.

Dorian went to see her. “You threatened Angel.” “Yes,” Greta confirmed. “If she doesn’t stay away, I’ll ruin her.” “Choose,” she demanded. “The alliance your family needs, or your temporary mistress?”

“Angel isn’t my mistress,” he said. “Then what is she?” “Everything. She’s everything to me.” Greta laughed. “And yet you’re going to marry me. Stay away, or I’ll destroy her.” Dorian was forced to agree to save me.

When he told me, I saw the pain in his eyes. “I need to break up with you,” he said. Our time was over, nine weeks before the wedding. He broke up with me to protect me, and I felt as if my world had ended.

Days of misery followed. Henry and Deb checked on me constantly. Finally, Henry had enough. “You need to fight for him.” “How? He did it to protect me.” “By showing you don’t need protection. By showing you choose him.”

“Interrupt the wedding,” Henry suggested. “Publicly. Tell the truth.” It was crazy, but it was the only thing that made sense. “I’m going to do it,” I said. “I’m going to interrupt the wedding.”

The church was opulent, filled with marble and stained glass. I stood in the back with Henry and Deb, watching Dorian at the altar. He looked miserable. Greta walked down the aisle, looking like a queen.

“If anyone has any objection, speak now,” the priest said. My heart was in my throat. I took a breath. “I do.” The church went silent. I started walking toward the altar. Dorian turned, and I saw shock, then hope, in his eyes.

“Angel?” “Sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but I have a very serious objection.” Greta screamed, “Who do you think you are?” I ignored her. “Dorian, you said you love me. You sent me away to protect me, but I don’t want protection. I want you.”

“I know this is crazy, but I love you. I couldn’t stay home knowing you were marrying someone else.” Dorian was silent, and I panicked. “Make her leave!” Greta ordered. Dorian looked at her, then at me.

“I can’t,” he said. He smiled, a real smile. “You’re crazy. Absolutely crazy.” “I am,” I agreed. “I’m crazy about you.” He loosened his tie and threw it on the floor. “Sorry, Greta. I can’t marry you when I’m in love with someone else.”

He walked down the steps to me, and chaos erupted. “I choose you,” he said. “Even if it costs everything.” We kissed at the altar, a public declaration that nothing else mattered.

The following months were a rollercoaster. The Moreau family cut all ties, and Dorian lost territory and power. “Do you regret it?” I asked. “Not for a second,” he said, placing my hand over his heart. “I’d lose everything a thousand times to be with you.”

But my father found out. The call came on a Thursday. “You interrupted Dorian’s wedding? The mob boss? Are you insane?” “I love him, Dad.” “He’s a criminal! You’re cut off. No inheritance, no family funds.”

“Then goodbye, Dad,” I said. “I’m not breaking up with him.” I hung up and sobbed. Dorian held me. Then my mother called. “Your father is furious, but I support you, Angel. It has to be secret, but I support you.”

Six months later, we were living together. Dorian was rebuilding his empire differently, without the forced alliances. I was working as a designer, proud to be supporting myself. We were happy, though it wasn’t always easy.

One rainy afternoon, my father showed up at our door. He looked uncomfortable. “I still think you’re crazy,” he began. “But you seem happy, genuinely happy.” “I am, Dad.” “Does he treat you well?” “Better than anyone ever has.”

Dorian walked in. He didn’t flinch, extending his hand. “Mr. Sharman.” My father shook it. “You hurt her, and I’ll kill you.” Dorian didn’t back down. “Fair. But I’ll never hurt her. She’s everything to me.”

My father nodded. “I accept. Not completely, but I accept.” It was the closure we needed. Two years later, we were stronger than ever. We returned to Eclipse for an anniversary party.

I wore the green dress. Dorian looked at me with that same intensity. “Are you testing my promise?” “What promise?” “I’ll rip it off you with my teeth,” he whispered. “Are you going to follow through?” “At home, where I can take my time.”

Suddenly, a guard ran up. “Greta’s back, boss. She brought allies.” My heart sank. “She wants you, Angel,” Dorian said, fear in his eyes. “To hurt me.” I looked toward the entrance and saw a figure walking with Greta.

My father. Walking beside her. “Looks like your father decided he wants to separate us,” Dorian said, his voice cold. The war was just beginning, but I knew that as long as we were together, we could survive anything.

“She said no,” Dorian murmured, his presence radiating a dangerous, possessive heat that forced Angel to catch her breath. They stood amidst the chaos of the music, an island of intense, electric stillness. “You shouldn’t be here,” he growled, his eyes roaming over her with a mixture of desire and raw frustration. Angel only smiled, tilting her head. “It’s just a dress, Dorian. Or is the problem that you’re looking?” He didn’t answer with words; he answered by pulling her into a dance that was far too intimate for a public club, his hands burning against her waist through the thin material.

That night, in the secluded safety of the parking lot, the pretense finally fractured. Dorian pressed her against the cool metal of her car, his restraint hanging by a fraying thread. “If I see you in this dress again,” he breathed, his voice a low, gravelly warning, “I won’t be responsible for my actions.” It was a threat, but it was also a promise—a declaration that he was tired of the game, even if he didn’t know how to stop playing it. Angel looked up at him, her heart thundering. She knew they were moving toward an inevitable collapse, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Weeks dissolved into a blur of secret meetings and desperate, stolen moments. Dorian’s family life was an escalating nightmare of forced dinners and pre-wedding preparations with Greta, who wore her status as a weapon. During a weekend at his family’s isolated beach house, the air was heavy with the silence of things left unsaid. One evening, Angel made a gamble. She emerged from the bathroom wrapped in little more than a towel, her hair damp, knowing exactly how the sight would shatter what little remained of his resolve.

When he confronted her in the hallway, his jaw tight and eyes dark with an internal war, she didn’t flinch. “Stop playing, Angel,” he commanded, though his hands, hovering near her, betrayed his desire to pull her closer. She stepped into his personal space, testing the boundaries of his control. “Is it working?” she asked softly. Dorian let out a ragged sigh, his head falling back. “It’s working. But I can’t. I won’t.” He turned away, desperate to preserve the illusion of his own strength, but the damage was already done. They were no longer two people playing a game; they were two people falling into an abyss.

The reality of their situation, however, was as cold as stone. A paparazzi photo of them on the beach surfaced, and Greta didn’t hesitate. She called Dorian while Angel stood right beside him, her voice cutting through the speakerphone like a serrated blade. “I know who she is, Dorian,” Greta hissed. “And I know the cost of betrayal. If you break this contract, your family loses everything. Do you really want to be the reason your father’s legacy burns?” The threat was not vague; it was a surgical strike aimed directly at his duty.

Dorian’s world narrowed down to the woman standing in his kitchen and the empire he was supposed to lead. In a moment of sheer, agonizing clarity, he and Angel struck a pact: three months. Three months to live as if the world didn’t exist, and then, the inevitable. They dove into their secret life with the fervor of people facing an execution, hiding in boutique hotels and encrypted messages. But secrets in their world were never truly buried; they were only waiting for the right moment to surface.

Angel’s mother, Margaret, was the first to sense the shift. Her intuition was a quiet, relentless force that Angel could no longer evade. Over a Sunday lunch, Margaret looked at her daughter with eyes that saw through every flimsy excuse. “Is it someone appropriate?” she asked, the question hanging in the air with the weight of a judge’s verdict. When Angel lied, the word felt like lead in her mouth. She knew the truth was a slow-acting poison, and the time for secrets was rapidly running out.

The inevitable confrontation with Greta happened in a parking lot, a scene of icy elegance and brutal threats. Greta didn’t scream; she spoke with the calm, terrifying certainty of a woman who owned the board. “You have 48 hours to end it,” she said, her smile not reaching her eyes. “Or I will inform your father of exactly who your lover is. Do you think Richard Sharman will be as forgiving as you hope?” The threat hung over Angel like a guillotine. She ran to Dorian, her world tilting on its axis, but the path forward was already blocked by the immovable wall of duty.

Dorian met Greta in her penthouse, a confrontation of two people who spoke the language of power and sacrifice. He tried to defend Angel, but Greta simply presented the bill for their lives. “Choose,” she had demanded. “The alliance or your mistress.” Dorian had chosen the lie to protect the truth. He came to Angel’s apartment to end it, his face a mask of grief so profound it broke her heart. “I have to let you go,” he said, his voice tearing as he turned to leave, the click of the door marking the end of their dream.

But despair proved to be a powerful catalyst for rebellion. Two weeks of silence passed, a period of mourning that Henry finally declared over. “You need to fight,” he insisted, pacing her apartment with a frantic energy. “Interrupt the wedding. Make it public. Force him to choose.” The idea was lunacy, a direct assault on the foundations of their social order, but as the plan took shape, Angel felt a resurgence of life. It was a gamble, a “now or never” moment that would either save them or destroy everything they held dear.

The day of the wedding was a spectacle of white marble and suffocating opulence. As Greta walked down the aisle, the air felt thin, electric with the anticipation of impending chaos. When the priest asked if anyone had an objection, Angel stepped out of the shadows. The silence that followed was total, a vacuum of sound before the explosion. She walked down the aisle, her eyes locked onto Dorian’s. He looked as though he had seen a ghost—or an angel. “I have an objection,” she said, her voice clear and steady, cutting through the murmurs of the elite.

Greta’s fury was a shrill, sharp sound, but Angel didn’t even acknowledge her. She spoke only to Dorian, offering him the truth in a room built on lies. “I don’t want protection, Dorian. I want you.” The congregation waited, a sea of faces frozen in judgment. Dorian looked at Greta, then at the floor, then at the woman who had dared to crash his life in the most public way possible. He stripped off his tie, a gesture of shedding the skin he’d been forced to wear, and walked down the steps.

“I can’t,” he told Greta, his voice echoing in the vast, silent church. He walked straight to Angel, the world behind him dissolving into madness. “I choose her,” he declared to his family, to the altar, and to the woman who had risked everything to come for him. The ensuing chaos was irrelevant. The kiss they shared was the only truth in the room, a public reclamation of their lives. When they walked out of that church, hand in hand, the path ahead was undoubtedly dangerous, but for the first time, it was entirely their own.

Rebuilding was a slow, arduous process. The fallout was immediate: territory lost, influence shattered, and a family legacy that required years of careful, authentic reconstruction. Dorian pivoted from the ruthless, forced strategies of his father to a new way of conducting business based on genuine alliances. Angel, stripped of her family’s financial safety net, forged her own path as a designer, finding a quiet, fierce pride in her independence. They were no longer the people who had played games in a dark club; they were partners building a reality that didn’t depend on the approval of others.

The final piece of their reconciliation came from an unlikely source. A year after the wedding, Richard Sharman arrived at their apartment, his expression a complicated mix of lingering judgment and hard-won acceptance. He didn’t offer a sweeping apology, but he offered his presence. He saw the happiness that had eluded his daughter for so long, and in his own way, he chose to honor it. “I accept it,” he said, the words heavy and final. It wasn’t the perfection they might have wished for, but it was enough to knit the fabric of their lives back together.

Years later, at the anniversary of Eclipse, the cycle seemed to come full circle. Angel wore the same emerald green dress, a nod to the beginning of everything. When Dorian saw her, the spark in his eyes was as potent as the day they met, but it was tempered by the depth of a thousand shared battles. He approached her, his hands coming to rest on her waist with the familiar ease of a lifetime. “Are you testing my promise?” he asked with a smile that was all his.

Their peace, however, was never destined to be permanent. A guard approached, the urgency in his gait betraying the tranquility of the evening. Greta was back, and this time, she hadn’t come to win an alliance; she had come to execute a vendetta. She had rallied the enemies Dorian had made when he broke the contract, and worse, she was accompanied by a figure that made Angel’s world stop: her father, walking by Greta’s side as if the past year of reconciliation had been a mere illusion.

“He wants to separate us again,” Dorian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper, his gaze hardening as he looked at the figures approaching across the room. The war hadn’t ended; it had merely evolved. Angel stood beside him, her heart steady, her hand firmly in his. They had rebuilt their world from the ashes, and they would defend it with everything they had. The dress was just the opening move; the real battle was only just beginning, and this time, they were facing it as one.