Chapter 3 #2
The guests were a mix of old money and new power, their laughter too loud, their smiles too pointed.
Men in tailored suits puffed on cigars and exchanged handshakes that seemed more like veiled power plays.
Women draped in designer gowns and glittering jewelry flitted about like glamorous predators, their gazes assessing Lexie with thinly veiled curiosity and amusement.
“I hope you appreciate the effort I went to,” Enzo said smugly, waving his napkin piled high with appetizers like it was a victory flag. “That dress? Perfect for you. You’re turning heads everywhere tonight.”
Lexie bit back the retort on her tongue and forced a tight smile.
She didn’t need his compliments; she needed a way out.
The pink dress wasn’t a gift—it was a trap.
Satin and sequins designed to make her visible, vulnerable, and unmistakably his.
Every shimmer under the chandelier lights felt like a spotlight, reminding her she was here on his terms.
The laughter and clinking glasses around them only made it worse. She felt like a lamb in a glass pen, paraded before the wolves.
She caught her reflection in a nearby mirror and almost winced.
The other women in the room wore understated elegance—black silk, deep jewel tones, clean lines.
She was the only one who looked like a cheap hooker.
At least she’d refused to plaster on extra makeup or tease her hair to match the dress.
“I’m sure they are curious,” she said quickly, her tone just polite enough to pass.
It wasn’t a lie. People were staring. Not because she was captivating, but because she was a glaring, bubblegum-pink anomaly in a sea of refinement. Every nerve in her screamed to run, but the satin clung like a second skin, and the shadow of those damn videos kept her chained to Enzo’s side.
And then her luck gave out completely.
The crowd shifted, opening a clear line of sight across the room.
Maximillian Diatras.
He stood near the center like a king holding court, every movement controlled, every glance deliberate. At first, his gaze passed over her without pause—an idle survey of his surroundings. But then his eyes came back. Higher this time, locking on her face.
Lexie’s breath caught.
The change in his expression was slight—just the faintest widening of his eyes, the hard line that carved into his jaw—but she felt it like a punch to the gut.
Recognition.
And then, far worse.
Fury.
From across the ballroom, Max’s gaze burned into her like a laser.
He wasn’t just angry; he was livid. His tall, powerful frame remained deceptively still, but his piercing gray eyes spoke volumes.
The crowd around him, laughing and chatting, seemed oblivious to the storm brewing beneath his composed exterior.
Enzo, clueless as ever, chuckled and nudged her. “See? Told you this dress would turn heads,” he said, clearly mistaking Max’s expression for admiration. “I think he’s impressed.”
Lexie swallowed hard, ignoring the heat rising in her cheeks. She wasn’t stupid—she could read Max like a book. He wasn’t impressed. He was furious. And when Maximillian Diatras was angry, the fallout was inevitable.
Max lifted a single finger. It was a subtle, almost casual gesture, but it sent a ripple through the room. His personal assistant, Ramone, immediately leaned in to hear whatever Max whispered into his ear. The exchange was quick—efficient—and Lexie knew exactly what was happening.
Her heart sank as Ramone straightened, scanning the room before locking on her.
He started moving, making his way through the guests with the kind of predatory grace that made her feel like prey.
Every step he took made her chest tighten further, and by the time he reached her side, she was holding her breath.
“Max would like a word with you,” Ramone said quietly, his voice calm but carrying an authority that brooked no argument.
Lexie forced herself to exhale, though her lungs still felt constricted. She glanced at Enzo, whose smug grin faltered slightly. He may have been too dense to understand the full gravity of the situation, but even he could sense the tension now.
“Is that so?” she replied, trying to sound nonchalant despite the panic clawing at her insides. Her fingers clenched around her satin clutch, and she had to remind herself to keep breathing.
This was it. She was about to face Max—alone. And she had no idea whether that would be better or worse than enduring the rest of the night by Enzo’s side.
Enzo puffed up like the overconfident little pig that he was, his chest swelling with self-satisfaction. “See?” he hissed in Lexie’s ear, his breath hot and rank, making her want to pull away. “Told ya I’d get the attention of the big boss with you on my arm.”
He adjusted his cheap tie with a cocky grin, the garish paisley pattern clashing horribly with the rest of his outdated ensemble.
The leather jacket he’d chosen for the evening was as much a crime as his manners, the worn material more suited to a second-rate thug than a guest in a room full of sharp suits and tailored elegance.
Compared to the other men in their sleek, tailored suits, Enzo looked like a walking, talking mafia cliché—the very image of a “Vito” from a bad gangster film.
But as Ramone stepped closer, the smug smile on Enzo’s face faltered. The assistant’s voice was calm, professional, and clipped. “Just Ms. Stacias,” he said, lifting a hand to halt Enzo’s attempted step forward.
Enzo froze, his expression flickering from self-satisfied to scowling in an instant. “What do you mean, ‘just Ms. Stacias?’” he demanded, his voice rising slightly as his ego began to deflate. He shot Ramone a glare, but the taller man didn’t so much as flinch.
Ramone didn’t bother repeating himself. Instead, he gestured smoothly for Lexie to follow him, motioning across the center of the room—a path that, Lexie realized with growing dread, would draw the attention of the entire room.
Enzo seemed to brighten, his twisted logic convincing him that Lexie’s solo summons was somehow a reflection of his own influence.
“Ah, he wants her to prep him, right?” Enzo mused aloud, nodding to himself.
“I’ll bet he’s gonna ask her opinion about me.
Yeah, that’s it. Gotta make sure the boss gets the right impression. ”
But Lexie wasn’t listening. Her focus was on Ramone, her voice barely a whisper as she leaned toward him.
“Could I… could I please walk that way?” she murmured, gesturing toward the outer edge of the ballroom instead of the direct route Ramone had indicated.
Her voice quivered slightly, though she tried to keep it steady.
She didn’t care if Enzo heard her—her only goal was to stay as inconspicuous as possible.
It was already humiliating enough to be in this absurd pink satin excuse of a dress; walking through the middle of the room felt like walking to her execution.
Ramone’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of sympathy. But then his neutral mask snapped back into place. “Of course,” he replied.
Enzo’s smile disappeared entirely, frustration twisting his face into an ugly scowl. “What the hell is this?” he muttered, his voice low and bitter. “I’m the one who brought her here. I’m the one who—”
“Stay here,” Ramone ordered, his tone cutting through Enzo’s growing protest like a knife. The command was issued with a quiet authority that left no room for argument.
Enzo fumed, his lips curling into a sneer as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine,” he grumbled, more to himself than anyone else. “But he’s making a mistake.”
Lexie swallowed hard, catching the resentment brewing in Enzo’s glare.
She knew his frustration wasn’t just at being left behind—it was also directed at her, as though she’d orchestrated this to purposefully undermine him.
She forced herself to take a deep breath, straighten her shoulders, and stepped forward, even as her knees threatened to buckle.
Each step across the marble floor felt heavier than the last, the weight of Max’s furious gaze making it impossible to ignore the impending confrontation.
She’d only made it two steps before Enzo’s hand shot out, his stubby fingers gripping her arm with enough force to make her wince. He pinched her as he tugged her back a step. “Tell Max I want a private word,” he demanded. “Convince him to speak with me.”
His gaze burned with a mix of desperation and threat, silently warning her of what he would do if she failed to make that private conversation happen. There was a glint of something darker in his expression—an unspoken reminder that he still held the upper hand in this twisted arrangement.
Lexie wanted to jerk her arm away, but the grip he had on her was unyielding, his fingers digging deeper into her already bruised skin.
She swallowed the sharp protest that bubbled up in her throat, biting back the urge to scream at him for grabbing her.
She was beyond sick of it—the way he laid his hands on her whenever he pleased, like she was some accessory he owned rather than a person with her own boundaries.
And the pinches hurt. She could already feel the bruises forming, shadowy reminders of his audacity that she’d have to deal with come morning.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she whispered. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing just how much he was hurting her. Then she looked pointedly down at her arm, her eyes flicking to his hand in a silent demand that he release her.