11. Lena #2
“I know this moment might be a surprise for many of you.” He pauses, and in that hush, I can hear the emotion in his voice. “It’s time I introduce the woman who, without meaning to, became the center of my life. My wife—Helena Monti.”
He squeezes my fingers gently, a quiet confirmation, then continues, eyes locked on mine, like every word is meant only for me.
“The woman who, without even knowing it, changed everything for me. For a long time, I thought I had it all figured out, that freedom, success, and life in the spotlight were enough. But Lena showed me none of that means anything if you’re too afraid to feel something real.
She reminded me who I am beneath the public image.
.. and made me want more than I ever thought I deserved. ”
Dominic lifts my hand and kisses it lightly, the perfect gentleman's act, timed right for the room. He holds it there for a beat, lips still brushing my skin as he looks up at me, controlled and elegant, exactly what people expect.
And then, out of nowhere, he pulls me in.
One hand at my waist, firm and certain, and before I can react, his mouth is on mine.
Not for the crowd. Not for the show. Just to make sure I feel it, that I feel him.
And for a moment, the room disappears and we’re suspended in something between truth and illusion.
I try to tell myself this is still part of the script. That he’s doing what the moment demands. But something about it feels too unscripted. And that terrifies me, because if it is real... then so is everything I’m starting to feel.
Applause breaks like a wave, snapping the moment in two.
We separate slightly, and Dominic signals to the band.
A slow, sweeping waltz begins to play, something that sounds like it belongs in another century.
He turns to me, and without a word, offers his arm.
I take it, even though my knees feel unsteady.
He pulls me back in with natural grace, his hand finding my waist with quiet confidence.
My fingers settle on his shoulder like they already know the shape of him.
We dance. The movements are smooth, measured, but beneath the calm, something hums. Tension.
Heat. And something quieter, harder to name, like we’re both waiting to see who flinches first.
We don’t speak. We don’t need to. His eyes stay on mine, and in that silence, I feel something that unnerves me more than words ever could: he sees me.
Really sees me. And for a moment, I forget why that should scare me.
I try to remind myself that this is a charade.
That none of it is real. But his words, the dance, the way his breath brushes my skin.
.. Everything says otherwise. And the way he moves, breathes, holds me, I believe he feels this too. Actually I know it.
Our dance becomes the only private moment of the evening.
As soon as the music fades, the guests close in—congratulations, hugs, too many faces, too many names.
I’m introduced to what feels like hundreds of people.
My cheeks start to ache, and I lose count of how many times I say “ thank you .” Dominic stays close at first, his hand holding mine, firm, then fingertips. And then, at some point, he lets go.
And just like that, the warmth at my side vanishes.
The crowd swallows him, and I spend the next two hours searching.
Pretending not to. People keep coming, familiar, unfamiliar, all of them too close.
My feet scream in high heels, and I keep scanning the room, desperate to find Lexi so we can slip away for a minute.
Dominic’s strategy is smart: get it all out in one night. Let them see me, touch me, hug me, and snap their photos, then the curiosity dies down. Quick and over with, he said. But it’s not quick. And it’s definitely not that easy to get over.
The night stretches endlessly, and somewhere between the toasts and the fiftieth cheek kiss, I start to feel trapped.
Like I’m shrinking inside a dress that suddenly doesn’t fit.
Maybe I’m developing a new kind of phobia, one where strangers keep touching you, smiling too wide, saying your name like it belongs to someone else.
I know I’m supposed to blend in. But all I can think is I’m the exhibit.
A strange, elegant accessory they’re all trying to figure out.
I slowly slip toward a side wall, remembering there’s a small coatroom with a door. A place to breathe. Someone grabs my arm. I turn and see a smiling man motioning to me. Impeccably dressed. And then I recognize him.
Mario Alessio. Senior editor at the media network I work for. My mentor.
“God, Mario! How did you get in here?” I throw my arms around him, genuinely happy to see a familiar face for the first time tonight.
“I had business in town. Read about your little adventure with Dominic Monti and decided to drop by the hotel. They let me in when I told them we’re friends.” He grins. “You look amazing, kid. And wow, Mrs. Monti. That’s quite the move.”
Mario was my first boss. Back then, he was the regional correspondent and hired me fresh out of school to help with research.
Not long after, he transferred to HQ, and my port corruption reports landed me a correspondent spot, and a raise.
Now, I basically handle this city solo, and central teams only fly in for major stories.
“Mario, I’m so glad to see you. You should’ve called, I would’ve made time to catch up.”
“We can catch up now,” he says, his tone light. “I’m not in town long, but I really wanted to talk.”
His voice lowers, just slightly. “Word around HQ is you’re talented, but it’s been a while since you delivered something big. They say you’ve been dangling some big exposé. Like you’re sitting on a story that could shake things up.”
He slips an arm around my shoulders, protective, as always. “Careful, kid. Don’t miss your moment. And don’t pick fights you can’t win.”
He watches me for a moment, like he’s waiting to see how I’ll react. “I remember you were looking into the Rinaldi family. Got anything? Need backup?”
I’ve always respected Mario’s bluntness.
He snapped me out of dream mode when he hired me.
He taught me what kinds of stories get traction, how to build a name, how to find sources, and how not to get intimidated.
I owe a lot to him. He helped me skip steps and toughen up fast in this brutal, mentally exhausting job.
And honestly, I need his opinion on the Anton Rinaldi file.
“I miss working with you every single day.” I pause. “I’m at a crossroads with Rinaldi. I’m torn. It’s one of those stories that could make me or break me. Maybe we can talk tomorrow? Do you have time?”
“Send me what you’ve got, and let’s talk specifics.
I’ll come to find you at the hotel in the afternoon.
But you know my take, if you’re already having moral doubts, you’re probably on the wrong track or in the wrong scenario.
Trust your gut, that’s what separates the good reporters from the great ones. ”
He hugs me again, and there’s this unexpected warmth in it. Like home. Like teamwork. With my current editor from HQ, there’s zero connection.
Mario pulls back from our hug and bumps straight into Dominic, who’s suddenly standing right behind him.
I didn’t even see him coming. Dominic is taller, broader.
He carries a presence that shifts the air around us.
And for some reason, I can feel more than explain, his eyes lock onto Mario with a controlled intensity.
It’s not just unfriendly. It’s territorial.
“He’s an old colleague,” I mutter, already feeling weirdly guilty.
“A very good old colleague, apparently,” Dominic says coolly, reaching out to shake his hand.
“Congratulations, Dominic,” Mario replies. “To both of you. Wishing you all the happiness in the world.”
Dominic nods. Mario slips away like he’s catching the last train out of town.
“I thought you were buried in congratulations somewhere, and I came to rescue you. And what do I find?”
Dominic’s eyes linger on mine. His tone sharper than usual. “You, getting cozy with some guy who’s way too handsy for an old colleague.”
“My feet hurt, I’m thirsty, and I’m trying to find Lexi. No need to play the jealous husband, no one’s listening.”
What the hell is going on with him? Where’s the charming man who made half the women in this room swoon tonight?
My words bounce off him like they’re hitting a wall.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. Just stares at me.
“Yeah. Maybe we should’ve put it in writing in the contract,” he says, voice low.
“I thought it went without saying. As long as you’re my wife, I’m the only one who gets to touch you.
That guy had his fingers dug into your bare back. ”
Oh, for God’s sake.
The spell breaks. I’m no longer the woman from the waltz, I’m smack in the middle of some territorial standoff I never agreed to. I’m exhausted. I played my part. And apparently, he did his. Now he’s all cold logic and caveman vibes.
“You approved the dress. You knew I’d be... on display. Do you even realize how many people hugged me tonight? And you choose Mario to unleash your medieval instincts on?”
He stays right there, sulking beside me like a grumpy prince. Probably as tired and irritable from the crowd as I am. Though you'd think he’d be used to this, it’s his world, after all.
I go back to my original escape plan. “Dominic, I’m going to find Lexi and a glass of water, and then I’m hiding in the coatroom for a breather. If you feel like practicing jealousy, you know where to find me.”
Yeah. That magical moment? Gone. Just part of the script. And I almost fell for it.
“I’ll send someone with water. And I’ll find Lexi for you.”
Back to being a gentleman.
“I hope Mario doesn’t find you first. Or worse, I find him.”
Nope. Primitive mode reactivated.