48.
Hello dear readers, while writing this chapter I was screaming every now and then, imagining these scenes in my head, especially the scene where Dante carries her over his shoulder with just one hand, lol.
So I took time to write this chapter, making sure it's good enough and you guys love it and imagine as well while reading it. But still, my writing is not perfect. If you see any mistakes, just point it out, please. Thanks.
Happy reading.
Word count: 1450?
The marble hallway spun.
Isolde giggled, one hand brushing the cold stone wall, the other still holding the empty champagne flute.
She had long forgotten where the guards were.
The warmth in her cheeks and chest felt like rose petals blooming beneath her skin.
Music drifted from the ballroom — a low, luxurious violin laced with piano.
She hummed along. Then sang.
Just a few lines, soft and off-key, but sweet enough to make three guests glance over from across the hall.
“La lune est belle,” she whispered, twirling once in the dim corridor.
Her hair, slightly loosed from its pins, spilled over her shoulder in waves. She was glowing, lips flushed, lashes heavy.
She floated back into the ballroom, following the music.
When the chandelier caught her, she shimmered.
All conversation paused.
She walked barefoot now, her stilettos abandoned somewhere by a fountain.
Her garnet dress swayed with each step, the slit whispering secrets to the floor. She moved like sleepwalking royalty graceful, drunk, and untouchable.
Her dark hair now fell loose from its careful twist, tumbling over one shoulder in thick waves.
Her garnet dress clung to her like something poured, not sewn—thigh-high slit revealing long, pale legs and a delicate lace garter.
Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted in an innocent smile, lashes lowered like she didn’t even know she was being watched.
But she was.
Every man. Every woman.
Every single eye turned as she twirled back into the center of the ballroom, champagne-warm and weightless.
She paused just under the chandelier.
A ripple of low laughter escaped her throat. “So sparkly…”
A nearby socialite—an older woman with white-blonde hair and an icy diamond collar—stared in confusion, fingers clutching her wine glass.
Two younger heiresses whispered behind manicured hands.
Their eyes flicked from Isolde to one another and back, unsure if what they were seeing was madness or magic.
Some women whispered to each other in jealousy calling her a slut.
If only they they knew whose wife she's and if her husband got to know what they called her, their tongue wouldn't be in their mouth to speak again.
Three men—sons of allies from a French mafia—watched her like prey. Their expressions were a tangle of awe and hunger.
She began to sway.
Not with rhythm. With grace.
Her arms lifted like wings, fingertips tracing the air in slow, mesmerizing arcs.
She spun, once, then again, laughter like bells falling from her lips. The movement pulled her dress higher.
The garnet necklace at her throat bounced with each step, the pendant resting just above her heart like a drop of blood.
A soft, foreign tune played.
And she danced.
Alone.
Like no one was watching.
And yet everyone was.
Two young men — sons of Eastern European lieutenants, barely older than twenty — exchanged a glance.
They stepped toward her.
One spoke first. “You alright, bella?”
She giggled. “You’re tall. I like tall. My husband is very tall...”
The other leaned forward. “Want to dance?”
She swayed. “Dance? Mmm... only if you spin me.”
Her hands lifted slightly, an invitation born of innocence, not intention.
Before either could touch her, a hand landed hard on the first man’s shoulder.
Dante’s guard.
“She belongs to Don Valencourt,” he said, voice low and deadly. “Step back. Now.”
The color drained from the men’s faces.
They stepped away, muttering apologies.
Isolde, oblivious, twirled once, arms out, eyes half-closed.
Then the music changed — a haunting, slow French waltz.
And she danced again.
Right there, in the center of the marble ballroom.
No partner. No choreography.
Just the soft unfolding of her arms, the slow roll of her hips, the elegant tip of her fingers tracing imaginary stars in the air.
The men watched.
So did the women.
Silent. Captivated.
One tried to join her. The guards blocked him.
Another reached for her waist. The guard shoved him back with a cold glare.
Still, she kept dancing.
She hummed to herself, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, every movement dreamlike and soaked in some private melody.
One man dark-haired, handsome, young—took a step forward, hand slightly outstretched.
His expression was gentle. Curious.
Another followed.
A third tilted his glass, smirking.
Then, like a dream, she caught one of their hands.
“Spin me,” she said, her voice hushed with delight.
The boy grinned and obliged, twirling her once. Her hair lifted.
Her body arched. She clapped once, giggling.
Before the second could join—before even a breath more could be exchanged—a hand gripped his wrist like iron.
Dante’s guard.
“No touching,” the man growled. “You’re not paid enough to lose fingers.”
The boys paled in fear and didnt dare to stand there one more second.
Isolde didn’t notice. She was in her own little world.
She’d dropped to the floor in a half twirl, one leg extended, fingers tracing the marble in fascination.
“Ice floors,” she whispered, laying one cheek briefly against the stone. “So cool. So shiny.”
A few women gasped softly.
The men who hadn’t dared approach watched with thinly veiled lust.
She sat up slowly and stood again, wobbling slightly.
Then—arms lifted, spine curving—she danced again.
When she twirled this time, the slit of her gown revealed too much.
And that was the moment Dante arrived.
The doors opened without sound, but his entrance echoed.
He moved like a storm. He didn't waste a second when he got the news.
Suit dark as night. Collar open. Silver chain at his throat glinting.
He now stood at the top of the steps.
Alex stood behind him, expression unreadable. Guards followed like shadows stitched to his fury.
His pale blue eyes landed on her—and didn’t blink.
And there she was.
His wife.
His beautiful, stupid, drunk wife
Dante didn’t move for a second.
He watched her.
He didn’t speak.
Watched her bare legs, her sway, the tiny smile playing on her flushed lips.
In front of men who didn’t deserve to see her.
His jaw tightened.
And then he watched the men.
Three. Four. Five and...six.
He counted.
The ones who had looked too long with lust filled their dirty eyes. The ones who hadn’t looked away.
His jaw flexed. His left hand curled into a fist. The tendons in his neck pulled tight.
He descended the stairs slowly.
The crowd parted.
No one said his name.
They knew.
Isolde turned when she felt his presence.
“Danteee!” she said, stumbling into a small twirl toward him. Her voice was honey and champagne.
She giggled, “I was looking for you.”
He caught her waist before she tripped.
Lifted her off the floor with one hand.
Then slung her over his shoulder.
“Whoa!” she laughed. “I was dancing! Did you see me?”
He didn’t speak. He was too calm.
She then squeaked. “Where are we going? You didn’t dance with me yet—"
With his free hand, he drew his pistol beneath his coat.
It was a custom Beretta, matte black, gold inlaid initials, trigger whisper-smooth.
One shot.
The sound rang like judgment.
Blood sprayed across marble.
Screams.
Two more shots.
Another body.
One more.
Men ducked. Women shrieked. A few ran. A few froze.
He didn’t fire at all of them. Only those who had dared.
Only those whose gazes had dragged too long across skin that did not belong to them.
And when it was done when silence fell as he walked through it.
The rest of the mafia leaders stood frozen. No one spoke. No one reprimanded him.
Because he was Dante. Dante Valencourt.
Because his rules were violence, devotion, and fire.
His guards closed in around him.
He carried her back through the scared crowd, arms dangling, fingers still tracing invisible notes.
Isolde moaned softly. “You smell good. I love it.”
He didn’t respond.
His hand curled tighter around her thigh.
Her soft voice mumbled nonsense. She was humming again, head lolling against his back.
Alex said nothing. Only signaled the guards to move.
Dante reached the car. The driver opened the door without being asked.
He placed her in the seat with the care of a man handling porcelain.
She looked up at him, dazed, dreamy.
“Did you see me dance?” she whispered.
He cupped her jaw.
“I saw,” he said darkly. “And so did they. And..I didn't like it so they paid the price.”
Then he kissed her forehead.
And shut the door.