Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Serena
T he sun dipped low on the horizon, bathing the sky in hues of pink and orange, casting a warm glow over the streets of New York. The city was alive with people, cars honking, and the occasional dog bark. It was a living force—loud, unapologetic, and always in motion. The concerto of humanity pulsed through my veins.
The twenty-first-century city was a far cry from anything I could see back home in Lucca, Italy. The modernness was just one of the many things I loved about New York, and it made me wish I’d visited more often.
On this particular evening, the streets were bustling with people dressed in their finest. Some were on their way to dinners, Broadway shows, or other forms of entertainment. For me, the Met Gala was my destination. I never imagined myself attending such an event. It was too prestigious, catering to those who lived much differently than I did. They would arrive at the red carpet in expensive cars, while I took a cab until I was close enough to walk.
A cool breeze kissed my skin. The early May air was warmer than usual, but I still felt a chill on my naked arms. I rubbed them vigorously, hoping to warm a bit as I approached the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I strolled past the long line of trees and benches. When I got closer to the wide granite staircase, I hesitated. I’d walked up the famous steps plenty of times in the past, and normally would have enjoyed seeing people playing instruments, reading books, or simply lounging while contemplating life.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, I wanted to avoid the steps at all costs. The casual variety of people who usually occupied them would no longer be there, replaced by an electric atmosphere of cameras and flashbulbs. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of anticipation for the possibilities ahead. Only the rich and famous would ascend the grand steps this evening—which was precisely why I needed to avoid them. I was far from being worthy of the elite.
The fact was, I had never been as financially strapped as I was at that moment. It was why imposter syndrome invaded my psyche. I knew I didn’t belong here, despite my cultured facade.
I recalled the care and attention I'd put into my appearance earlier that evening. The expense of having my hair styled and my face made up was worth it. My eyes were smoldering, almost seductive, and my dark locks coiffed into a sophisticated updo. I’d hardly recognized myself in the mirror at my hotel room. A luxury salon visit was a rarity, but I knew my limitations. I seldom required fancy hair and makeup in my line of work, making my experience with so much fuss practically non-existent. Calling in professional help for tonight had been a must if I wanted to make the best possible impression.
My hand drifted up to smooth a strand of hair, now curled and pinned elegantly with a few loose tendrils cascading down the center of my neck and upper back. They ended just above the blood-red corset, intricately laced with a spill of scarlet chiffon that flowed dramatically over my legs to brush the ground. The lavish gown and heart-shaped ruby necklace were donations from the renowned French designer, Madeleine Toussaint.
Madeleine was my mother’s childhood friend who had worked tirelessly to make her way in the fashion industry. She’d had a deep appreciation for my father’s archaeological work before his passing, and it was by her invitation that I was here tonight. I had a need, and she had design skills to show off.
She understood the severity of my situation and what was at stake. The bedside promise I’d made to my father just days before his death required money—and lots of it. Archeological excavations didn’t come cheap, and Madeleine had assured me that the guest list for the Met Gala would open the doors to the funding I desperately needed to keep the Rome project going.
Still, I couldn't shake my nagging doubts. As beautiful as the hand-sewn dress was, I had half a mind to ball up the cumbersome train—which, for all intents and purposes, was ridiculous—hail a cab to the JFK airport and return to Italy. The red carpet and glare of the cameras were not for an introvert like me. Being in the company of celebrities, musicians, fashion designers, and models would never be my forte, but I had little choice but to endure it. Only the ultra-wealthy had the resources to support my father’s work, and bumping elbows with them was far more important than my discomfort or awkwardness. I had to pretend to fit in and act as if I knew what I was doing.
Focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, I forced myself to continue toward the grand staircase. However, the closer I got, the more my heart began to race. Anxious jitters threatened to overwhelm me, and I began to sweat to the point of feeling feverish.
Maybe if I just take a minute to sit down and collect myself…
I glanced over my shoulder at the bench I’d just passed. I could sit for a moment. But before I did, I paused, realizing the dress would make it quite a challenge. It wasn’t just the train that was an issue—the voluminous layers of chiffon were bulky and burdensome.
I pressed my lips together tightly and started the awkward attempt at gathering the skirt’s layers. I tried to move them to one side so I could sit, but the corset was so snug, I could barely bend to collect the chiffon. My stomach pitched, and I absently wondered if it was something I ate or because the dress was pulled too tight.
I released an impatient breath but suddenly stopped when I realized I was being watched. I glanced up to meet the observing eyes of a man in a bespoke tuxedo. He stood under the shade of a tree less than twenty feet away, staring with rapt curiosity.
Fabulous. Just what I need right now. An audience.
I tried to act indifferent to his attention, but something made me pause and take a second glance.
The man was anything but ordinary. He was striking in the most captivating way. I judged him to be close to my age or slightly older, perhaps around thirty-five. He was tall, standing well over six feet, impressive in his black tuxedo jacket, crisp white shirt, and solid black bowtie.
His dark brown hair was longer, but not too long, with natural waves curling at his collar. It was styled haphazardly, framing a tanned, chiseled face and sculpted square jawline. It gave him an air of refined elegance, yet there was something raw around the edges of all that masculine perfection. A hint of danger that made him even more alluring, reminding me of Henry Cavill circa 2012.
I’d encountered many attractive men throughout my life, but none had ever compared to the one standing before me. He was as intimidating as he was tempting, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d look like without all that expensive clothing. I envisioned what it would be like to unfasten the buttons of his shirt and explore the span of his chest, over his shoulders, and...
I felt a sudden stirring deep in my belly, and my face flushed with heat.
What the hell was that?
The guy was gorgeous, but my physical reaction to him was a bit much—even if it had been a while since I’d last felt a man’s touch. Ten months to be exact. But who was counting? I scolded myself for being so ridiculous.
I changed focus, intent on maintaining a modicum of grace as I resumed my attempt at sitting on the city bench. However, the pretense at poise was wishful thinking. To my horror, when I lifted the train, the pointed heel of my shoe caught one of the many hems, and I lost my balance.
“Oh!” I gasped, suppressing a curse as my flailing arms searched for something to hold onto. My current dilemma should have been predictable. The idea that I could ever be graceful in high heels and a gown like this was laughable.
I braced myself for impact as the ground rushed to meet me.
But instead of falling onto hard concrete, I landed against the solid chest of my dark and mysterious observer. It was an embarrassing moment and incredibly cliché. Pretty woman falling into the arms of a handsome stranger. Only my life could resemble a Hollywood romcom.
However, my embarrassment was short lived, instantly replaced by the precipitous awareness of his firm grip—of one hand bracing my lower back and the other curling around my upper arm.
I inhaled sharply, the sudden intake of breath introducing me to his tantalizing scent. He smelled almost as good as he looked. It was an intoxicating, fresh combination of sexy male and decadent sin. A flush warmed my cheeks as our eyes met. His gaze was reserved and assessing, making me feel as if he could see through to my most intimate secrets .
I returned his stare, mesmerized by his incredible eyes. They were as dark as onyx with chocolate flecks that one could only discern if they were close enough—and boy, was I ever close. The intensity of his dark gaze sent a shiver down my spine, raising the hairs on the nape of my neck.
My pulse thrummed from his proximity. A perfect stranger should not arouse these feelings from me. I was oddly turned on in all the best ways, yet I couldn’t recall a time in my life when I’d felt more humiliated. I wasn’t sure how I was able to feel both at the same time.
“Are you alright?” he asked. His voice was as smooth as his appearance.
Unease etched across his flawlessly chiseled features, and I realized I was gawking at him like a smitten schoolgirl. He was devastatingly gorgeous—of that there was no doubt. But it was the potent sexual energy radiating from him that rendered me irrationally speechless.
I blinked twice and shifted slightly back, forcing myself to focus. Clearing my throat, I gave him a quick nod.
“I’m fine, thank you. It seems poofy layers are in vogue this season. I should have informed the dress designer about my terrible rapport with poof. We had a bad break up some years ago, and I swore I’d never go back.”
A hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth, almost as if he were holding back a chuckle. He glided his hand down the length of my arm, stopping near my elbow.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, of course. Why?” I asked, biting down on my lower lip.
“Your pulse. It’s racing.”
“Is it?” I practically squeaked. I moved to pull my arm away, but he caught me and held firm to my hand.
Something dark smoldered in the depths of those ruthless eyes, and he seemed closer than he had been a few moments before. Our heads were only a foot apart, and I wondered if he would kiss me. Surely, I had to be mistaken. After all, we’d only just met, and I didn’t even know his name.
Still, I couldn’t stop myself from breathing in, needing to indulge in his scent once more. The tempting blend of pine and fresh water with his natural masculinity was a heady combination. It reminded me of that alluring smell of rain in the air just before a wicked storm.
Much to my disappointment, he stepped back until we were a respectable distance apart, but he continued to hold my hand in his. His fingers grazed my palm until I remembered I didn’t have soft, feminine hands like most other women he probably interacted with. Mine were calloused from years of working in the dirt. Feeling self-conscious, I pulled my hand away.
His onyx eyes flashed, and his brows pushed together. If I wasn’t mistaken, my action seemed to displease him.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Serena.”
“A name fit for a princess. I’m Anton.”
Adonis. Apollo. Ares. Anton. Of course, his name would sound like it belonged to a mythical God. Why wouldn’t it? Was Anton even the name of a God?
Someone in my line of work should know that answer, but the minute I’d laid eyes on this alluring man, my brain had turned to mush. I was utterly captivated by him. It was as if he had cast a hypnotic spell over me.
I bit my lower lip to stop swooning even more, then gave him a small smile.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Anton.”
“I can assure you—the pleasure is all mine,” he drawled.
Holy hell.
I fought the threatening blush and tried to ignore how his comment made me feel. The effort was in vain. Despite my best efforts, embarrassing heat flooded my cheeks. Between his affluent attire and ruthlessly handsome features, this man was way too sexy for his own good.
His eyes shifted to linger on the ruby around my neck before falling to the swell of my breasts. His gaze stayed there only briefly, but long enough for me to notice. I felt my flush deepen, but I didn’t mind his slow appraisal. It didn’t feel like inappropriate ogling but more like a show of appreciation.
“I’m on my way to the Met Gala. I assume that’s where you’re headed as well?” he questioned, looking pointedly at my dress.
“If I can muster up the courage to climb those steps, then yes. I’m here by invitation from a friend, the designer of my dress.”
“Ah, I see. And your escort? Where is he, princess?” he prodded.
Escort? As in, my date?
I didn’t think people used such formal terms anymore.
“Oh. Um...no escort. This is just business.” My reply came out stilted and unsure. I couldn’t quite understand why he was asking or calling me ”princess,” but it made my stomach flutter.
My father had used that term of endearment for me when I was a little girl. But with him, it was a fatherly thing said to his only daughter. With Anton, it took on a different meaning. Like I was the damsel locked in a tower and he was the rogue warrior sent to rescue me. After all, he had just saved me from a fall. What was he if not my knight in shining armor? I kind of liked the idea.
No. I really liked it—even though I knew I shouldn’t. I was too busy to entertain fairytales.
My eyes focused on his, and I was instantly ensnared in his gaze once again. It caused my heart to do the sort of flip I hadn’t felt since high school.
“All business and no play? Such a shame,” he mused with a tsk-tsk .
“Not really. These things aren’t my cup of tea. ”
“Oh?” he questioned with a raised brow.
“I don’t fit in here. I mean, just look at me.”
His eyes darkened.
“I am.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…
So much seemed to be packed into those two little words, and I found myself blushing again.
“I just meant that these events are…” I fought a sigh of frustration as my foolish blathering continued. “I guess I don’t…I don’t know how to explain how I feel.”
“Try me,” he coaxed, as if it were so easy.
I looked away. I had a PhD, and I’d given countless lectures to hundreds of people, yet I could barely string more than four words together in front of this one man.
I bit down on my lower lip and contemplated how to describe my irrational fear of attending such a high-profile event, where I would be forced to interact with some of the world’s most famous, influential, and wealthiest people. I was terrified of experiencing a monumental failure—a bitter defeat of everything I’d ever worked for. But worse, failure would mean I’d never follow through on my promise to my father.
Sweat began to bead on my brow, and my stomach lurched. For the second time in ten minutes, I thought I’d be sick. However, I wasn’t so sure if it was from the tight dress or from my nerves. Perhaps it was neither. The feverish feeling had returned, and I was starting to think I was coming down with something. If I was going to be sick, I didn’t want it to happen in front of him.
I brought my gaze back to meet his. The sexy stranger waited patiently for an answer I didn’t feel comfortable giving.
“It’s complicated.” I tried to shrug off the question, suddenly overcome with the need to escape.
“Most things in life are, Serena.” His gaze was heavy and warm. It was like a blanket on the coldest winter day, making me want to get lost in all the comforts he could offer.
Still, I didn’t want to admit my insecurities about not belonging—especially to someone who looked as confident as he did. This event was for the elite. For all I knew, he was among them, hailing from a prestigious lineage that I’d never measure up to. But at the same time, he didn’t come across as an arrogant snob like one would expect from someone who appeared beyond reproach. He seemed genuinely interested in hearing what I had to say.
“A lot is at stake,” I said honestly. “There are investors here I need to connect with to keep the lights on. I know what to do and say, but I’m…”
Not good enough. Out of their league.
But I didn’t say those words out loud. Instead, I paused and pushed my brows together in consternation. Something about this man made me want to divulge more about myself than I should.
“Go on,” he encouraged.
“I guess I’m just not in a hurry to walk the red carpet. It’s intimidating, and I’m awkward at these sorts of events,” I admitted, pointing toward the museum.
“Is this your first time attending the Met Gala?” Anton asked, cocking his head to the side curiously.
“Yes, and surely it will be the last. You?”
“First time. This isn’t really my scene either,” he said. His eyes narrowed, and the set of his jaw tightened. “It’s a bunch of rich people carrying little plates of food that will never get eaten, pretending to care about a cause while wearing ten-thousand-dollar suits and priceless designer dresses. It’s become more about political statements and gaudy displays of wealth than anything else. Like you, I’m only here because I have a need. Otherwise, I’d find better things to do with my money. These celebrity events are all the same. Once you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all.”
I raised a brow at his cynicism, but I couldn’t disagree.
“You’re right about that. This isn’t really all that dissimilar to other events I’ve attended, although none of them have been quite this grand. They were smaller scale with less media attention, but the pretenses and shows of wealth are all the same. You’d think attending things like this would get easier over time, but they don’t. If anything, they’ve gotten harder for me.” I looked down, focusing on an old, flattened wad of gum on the sidewalk. I wasn’t sure why I was divulging so much, but I found myself continuing. “I guess you could say my insecurities rule me, even when I know the emotions are irrational.”
“Emotions don’t have to make sense, Serena. They just have to make themselves known,” he stated as if it were that obvious. “You’re a beautiful woman. You belong here as much as the next.”
I slowly blinked twice, looking back up to meet his gaze as I processed his words. He was clearly flirting with me, yet there was something else to it as well. I’d lived in Italy long enough to see through smooth-talking Italian men, but this came across different. The heat of his stare stirred deep-rooted emotions, making me feel astoundingly exposed. It was as if he could see beyond my borrowed designer dress and ruby necklace, and lay bare every secret I’d ever held dear.
I looked down again, then gave him a brief sideways glance. I wasn’t sure what game he was playing, but I wasn’t here for it. I had no time for meaningless flirtation—if that’s what this was. I needed to stay focused on what I set out to do tonight.
Reaching up, he placed his forefinger under my chin and tilted my head until all I could see were his endless onyx eyes.
“Do you know what a trustfall is?” he asked. His head tilted to the side as he carefully assessed me. His expression made me feel like a puzzle he was determined to solve .
My brow furrowed. I could deduce what it meant, but I wasn’t sure how it would apply here.
“I’m sorry?”
“A trustfall. It’s the ability to fall without questioning whether everything will be alright in the end. It means blindly jumping into uncomfortable situations and irrevocably trusting someone or something to catch you if you fall.”
“Are you saying that I should just go in there and trust everything will be fine?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Although we only just met, you don’t strike me as a delicate wallflower.” He took my hand again and grazed his fingers along my calloused palm. “Sometimes pure grit is the thing that helps you fall when you least expect it. Trust yourself.”
I pressed my lips together in a tight line. There may have been a time when I could do exactly as he suggested, but not now. Not anymore. Too much had changed, and too much was at stake.
“I don’t think I can do that—at least not with the confidence you’re suggesting.”
Something dark flashed across his face before it was quickly masked. He seemed upset—perhaps even slightly angry. But then he pressed his lips together and nodded, seeming to come to a decision.
“Do you trust me, Serena?”
It was such an odd request from someone I’d just met.
“I don’t know you, Anton,” I replied hesitantly.
“I think we should remedy that,” he stated. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, his eyes showing just a hint of mischief before darkening with words unspoken. “Trustfall, princess. Let go and trust me to be your escort tonight.”
I didn’t know how I could wholly trust someone I barely knew—yet, strangely, I found myself wanting to do exactly that. Still, something told me that I wasn’t just accepting his offer to escort me to the gala. He regarded me with curiosity and desire, a look that seemed to convey something deeper. It was as if he were demanding that I submit to unforeseen forces lingering just below the surface.
Trustfall.
The idea made me feel vulnerable and exposed, yet something in his unwavering gaze made me want to give in. The obsidian depths held a mesmerizing allure, and I found myself spellbound.
I wanted to do as he suggested even though my subconscious warned me to be cautious. I wanted to walk away from him and focus on what I came here to do, yet I also wanted to forget my obligations and give in to the feelings he provoked. He drew me in like a moth to a flame, making me both fascinated and wary. The internal tug of war was real. I was the epitome of opposites—a jumble of contradictions.
I took a deep breath, allowing my chest to expand as much as the tight bodice of my dress would allow, and tried to calm my hammering heart. Ignoring the warning voice in my head that said I couldn’t afford this distraction, I accepted his outstretched hand.
Anton’s eyes crashed into mine, and I allowed myself to give in—to trustfall.
“Okay, Anton. I’ll trust you.”