Chapter 5 – Calista
The ballroom doors loom in front of me like the gates of some decadent prison. I step forward alone—no escort, no arm looped through mine. Lazaro didn’t even bother to accompany me. The bastard. Figures.
The journey here was a blur. My heels click on marble floors that echo with opulence. I could be dreaming—maybe I am. Maybe I’ll wake up back in my cramped apartment above the studio, ink-stained fingers and freedom still intact. But no. This is real. The golden chandeliers dripping crystals from the ceiling, the polished marble columns, the velvet-draped tables glinting under ambient lighting—it’s all real. And beautiful. Disgustingly beautiful.
Even in misery, I can’t lie to myself—the venue is stunning.
A week has passed since Lazaro dropped that bombshell. One week of confinement and powerlessness. I tried to make a plan—any plan. An escape route, a trick, a distraction—anything that would give me even a sliver of control back. But the guards stationed outside my room didn’t budge. Not for food, not for pleas, not even for sleep.
I asked Lazaro once if I could go buy my own dress.
"I'd like to pick it myself," I told him, arms crossed, trying to cling to any small piece of dignity.
He looked at me like I was a child asking for candy. Then he laughed. Actually laughed.
"You’ll wear what I choose," he said with that maddening smirk. "You’re not here to shop. You’re here to play a role—and I’ll decide how that role looks."
The next day, a designer showed up—sleek, clinical, with pins, a tape measure, and a team of assistants who didn’t even make eye contact with me. They measured, they tailored, they styled me like I was some porcelain doll they’d been ordered to dress. Lazaro was there too, sitting in the corner of the room, watching the whole thing like it was some sort of performance curated for his amusement.
"Is this really necessary?" I asked, glaring at him from where I stood in front of the mirror.
"Of course it is," he replied casually, sipping his espresso. "You’ll be on display. You might as well look the part."
"So I'm your decoration now?"
He smiled faintly, eyes cool. "You're whatever I want you to be."
I wanted to throw something at him then—maybe the measuring tape—but I stood still, letting the assistants poke and pin me almost torturously. And he just watched, observing my every move.
Now, I’m wearing a deep wine-colored gown that hugs every curve like it was sculpted onto my skin. The fabric feels light and elegant, a prison stitched in silk. It's, of course, full-length sleeved to cover the tattoos on my right arm, hiding the ink that tells my story. Another reminder that my identity isn’t allowed to exist in his world. Another subtle power play in Lazaro’s book.
The neckline reveals my shoulders and the outline of my breasts, leaving little to the imagination. It’s power and possession disguised as fashion. My hair tumbles in long, styled curls down to my waist—waves molded by someone else’s vision, shaped by decisions that were never mine to begin with.
I look like a stranger.
A stranger with Calista Rourke’s eyes but none of her fire.
I step into the ballroom, back straight, chin high. The scent of champagne, cologne, and expensive perfume drifts around me in thick waves. Music plays from the string quartet in the corner—a soft and elegant tune.
Eyes turn toward me. Gazes narrow and linger. Whispers trail like smoke. I walk among predators now—syndicate allies and enemies dressed in silk and smiles, each one offering thinly veiled congratulations like knives wrapped in ribbon.
And then I see him.
Lazaro.
He’s already here, standing near the far end of the ballroom, a glass of champagne in hand. His posture is composed. That perfectly tailored suit clings to him like it was sewn into his skin—dark charcoal with a crisp white shirt beneath, collar sharp enough to draw blood.
Our eyes meet.
He looks at me for a moment too long—just enough to send a chill spiraling down my spine. His gaze sweeps over the gown, lingering at the neckline before returning to my face. His expressions are unreadable. But there’s no admiration in them. Just... ownership. And then, the bastard smiles as he walks toward me.
My stomach twists.
God, I hate him.
I remind myself of that as the distance closes between us.
"You clean up well," he says smoothly, offering me his arm. I hesitate, then place my hand on it only for the sake of appearances. His skin is warm beneath the layers of fabric.
"Funny," I mutter. "Didn't think you noticed anything beyond your own reflection."
He leans in slightly, voice low and venomous. "Play nice, Calista. You’re the happy fiancée tonight."
"I’d rather drink poison," I hiss through clenched teeth.
He chuckles, leaning in closer. "Smile anyway. And try not to stab anyone with a dessert fork."
Then, with practiced ease, he presses a kiss to my cheek.
No, not my cheek—lower. My jaw.
My breath catches involuntarily. For a second, I want to shove him off. But a part of me—the part that’s spent too long being seen as prey—freezes. His mouth lingers just long enough to blur my hate with an unfamiliar feeling. One I wouldn't like to feel for him.
I pull back quickly, eyes blazing.
"Don’t ever do that again."
He just smirks. "It’s for the cameras. You’ll get used to it."
"I won’t."
"You will," he says, with finality.
And just like that, we’re surrounded by people—giving fake kisses and receiving hollow congratulations.
Lucrezia appears by my side, graceful and sharp-eyed, offering whispered glances like instructions. A subtle nod here, a half-smirk there, the press of fingers against my wrist when I start to stiffen too much. She’s choreographing my every move with invisible strings.
When I finally manage a perfectly timed smile, she leans closer and whispers, "You're a natural."
Then, without another word, she glides away toward another woman draped in emerald silk, leaving me to swim in this sea of snakes.
Lazaro stays beside me, his hand sliding to my waist—firm, possessive, rehearsed. His fingers grip me just enough to be noticed, a silent cue that I’m his property.
He leans in, brushing his lips near my ear. "You play the role well."
I keep my eyes ahead, smile sharp. "I’ve had practice pretending I’m not drowning."
Every time our eyes meet, there’s a challenge in his gaze—like he’s daring me to stumble, to falter. But I won’t give him that satisfaction.
Lazaro clicks his champagne glass gently, the crystal chime cutting through the room like a command. Conversations hush, and the music fades. Everyone looks at us with anticipation.
"Thank you all for joining us tonight," Lazaro says smoothly, voice ringing with practiced charm. "It's a celebration of new beginnings—and of family."
He turns to look at me and his expression softens into something that almost looks loving. Almost believable.
"My darling Calista," he adds, raising his glass toward me. The crowd echoes his motion in a sea of toasts, smiles, and cheers.
Midway through the applause, there's a sharp crack of a gunshot, slicing through the air. One of the chandeliers above us explodes, scattering glass in all directions. A scream follows instantly—a high, panicked sound that breaks the elegant veneer of the night. Then a glint from the far mezzanine—something metallic catching the light.
A rifle.
Before I can react, another shot rings out. My body jerks instinctively, but Lazaro moves faster. He lunges in front of me, his arms wrapping around me.
The bullet rips through the air, grazing his arm. Flesh tears, fabric shreds. Blood blooms on his sleeve.
Chaos erupts.
Screams, overturned champagne glasses, guards rushing in from every corner. Someone pulls me back and shields me behind one of the marble columns. I can’t even tell who.
Lazaro doesn’t react. He stands tall, blood soaking through his arm sleeve.
I break free and rush to him, before I can stop myself. "You got shot..."
He smirks through gritted teeth. "Only because you're too valuable a commodity to replace."
My heart clenches—against my will. "So sweet. A real romantic."
"Romance isn’t my thing. I do strategy."
I roll my eyes at him and rip a strip of linen from a nearby tablecloth and press it to the wound. "Well, strategist, can you not bleed on the centerpiece?"
He hisses when I tighten the knot.
"You didn’t have to tighten it so much," he mutters, a hint of irritation laced beneath the pain.
I glance up at him, expression flat. "I could think of worse things I’d like to do to you."
He chuckles under his breath, leaning in slightly. "Careful, sweetheart. That almost sounded like foreplay."
"Ugh," I mutter, rolling my eyes, but my stomach twists. We fall into silence, just staring at each other, locked in a moment neither of us knows what to do with.
But the moment passes when I hear footsteps. Riven walks toward us, his steps clipped and eyes sharp, snapping us both back into reality. Lazaro’s unhurt arm, the one wrapped around my waist, suddenly slips away—and I hate that I notice its absence. That I miss its warmth.
Riven stops in front of us, his voice low but urgent. "Looks like the De Corsis have gotten wind of the engagement."
Lazaro barely blinks, like he was expecting this. "Well then," he says coolly, "let's prepare for war."