Chapter 2 - The ApproachThe silence that followed Matteo’s movement across the marble floor was instantaneous and absolute.
In a room where power was measured by how many people noticed you entering, Matteo Cipriani commanded attention without uttering a single syllable. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored midnight-black tuxedo that accentuated his tall, athletic frame, his dark hair neatly styled, and his sharp, uncompromising gaze fixed entirely on the spot where I stood.
Mabel Laurent, who had been basking in the lingering amusement of her little circle, noticed the sudden shift in the room's energy. She turned her head, expecting to see a senator or a major media mogul arriving.
Instead, she saw Matteo walking straight toward her—or rather, straight past her, toward me.
Mabel’s breath hitched. Her carefully practiced socialite smile wobbled and nearly cracked. Everyone in Manhattan knew who Matteo Cipriani was, but very few ever managed to get within ten feet of him unless he was buying out their company.
I didn't notice him at first. I was staring down into my champagne glass, fighting back the humiliating sting behind my eyelids, wishing desperately that I could vanish.
Then, the air pressure in my immediate vicinity shifted.
A heavy, masculine presence settled just behind my right shoulder. A clean, subtle scent of cedarwood and expensive leather cut through the suffocating perfume of the ballroom.
“Ayla.”
The deep, resonant voice sent a strange, electric shiver straight down my spine.
I froze. I slowly raised my head, blinking in utter confusion as I turned around.
Standing right beside me—close enough that I could see the faint stubble along his strong jawline and the intense, piercing warmth in his dark eyes—was Matteo Cipriani.
My brain completely short-circuited. Matteo Cipriani? Why is he talking to me? Does he know Mabel? Is he going to tell me I’m standing in his way?
“M-Mr. Cipriani,” I stammered, my voice barely audible over the stunned quiet of the surrounding guests.
Across from us, Mabel Laurent looked like she had just seen a ghost. Her face drained of all color, her hands twitching nervously against the fabric of her designer gown. Jean Dubois, who had retreated to the edge of the circle, suddenly looked as though he might faint.
Matteo didn't look at Mabel. He didn't look at Jean. His gaze remained entirely fixed on me, and for the first time since I walked into the ballroom, the terrifying weight on my chest lifted just a fraction.
“I’ve been looking for you all evening, Ayla,” Matteo said, his tone shockingly gentle compared to the freezing aura he projected toward the rest of the room.
My jaw dropped. “You… you were looking for me?”
“I was,” Matteo replied smoothly. He reached out, his warm fingers brushing lightly against my elbow as he gently guided me away from Mabel’s stunned circle, positioning me directly beside him. It was a subtle gesture, but it sent an unmistakable message to every single person watching: She is with me.
Mabel finally found her voice, though it squeaked with uncharacteristic panic. “M-Mr. Cipriani! I—we had no idea you were acquainted with… with Ms. Morris. We were just welcoming her to the gala—”
Matteo finally turned his head, casting a single glance in Mabel’s direction. It wasn't an angry look. It was worse. It was the look a surgeon gives a petri dish before discarding it.
“Your definition of welcoming leaves a great deal to be desired, Miss Laurent,” Matteo’s voice cut through the air like a razor blade. “Mocking someone’s attire in a room meant for charity speaks volumes about your character. Or lack thereof.”
Mabel’s face flushed a deep, mottled crimson. She opened and closed her mouth, humiliated on a scale she had likely never experienced in her entire life, but she didn't dare utter a single word back to a man who could ruin her father’s entire conglomerate before breakfast.
Matteo ignored her completely after that, turning back to me with a softening in his dark eyes.
“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, ignoring the three hundred pairs of eyes staring at us in absolute shock.
I swallowed hard, feeling a lump in my throat that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the fact that, for the first time in years, someone had actually stood up for me.
“I’m… I’m okay,” I whispered, looking up into his face. “Thank you.”
“Don't thank me yet,” Matteo murmured, a faint, dangerous smile touching the corner of his lips. “The night is still young, and I believe we have a dance to attend.”
Before I could process what he meant, Matteo extended his hand.
May you like
I looked down at his large, powerful hand, then up into his steady, encouraging eyes. Without a second thought, I placed my hand in his.
And as Matteo led me out onto the center of the polished marble floor, right under the blinding glare of the crystal chandeliers, I knew my life was never going to be the same again.
