Page 16 of Twisted Vows

The ballroom was a spectacle of wealth and power, chandeliers casting a golden glow over men in tailored suits and women in designer gowns. Conversations hummed like a well-rehearsed symphony, filled with thinly veiled threats and false pleasantries. A string quartet played in the background, the music elegant yet somehow menacing beneath the surface.

Matteo kept her close, his hand a firm presence at the small of her back. She played her role flawlessly, offering Matteo a dazzling smile as he introduced her to various associates. She listened, nodded at the right moments, laughed when required—but all the while, she was aware of the weight of Matteo’s gaze on her.

And he was aware of hers.

The moment she excused herself to get a drink, she felt him close behind her. His presence was inescapable, wrappingaround her like an invisible chain. When she reached the bar, Matteo leaned in, his breath hot against her ear.

“You’re enjoying this a little too much,” he murmured.

She turned to face him, tilting her head in mock curiosity. “Enjoying what?”

Matteo’s fingers ghosted along her wrist, his grip possessive yet controlled. “Being my wife. Playing this game.”

Isla smiled, the challenge dancing in her eyes. “Who says I’m playing?”

Matteo’s hand slid lower, his fingers grazing the curve of her waist, the touch brief yet searing. His expression darkened, his voice dropping to something dangerously low. “You should be careful, Isla.”

She swallowed but kept her composure, tilting her head slightly. “Why? Afraid I might start liking it?”

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze flickering over her face as if searching for the lie. Then, without another word, he pulled away, leaving her standing there with her pulse racing and her body betraying everything she had told herself.

The attraction between them was dangerous.

And it was getting harder to resist.

Chapter Twelve

The evening was a careful performance, a waltz of power and deception played out in the grand ballroom of the DeLuca villa. Isla had expected as much. These events were never just about celebration—they were about control, about shifting alliances, about proving who held dominance over the room. And tonight, Matteo owned every glance, every whispered conversation, every ounce of fear woven into the air.

But Isla refused to be just another piece in his game.

She had played her part all night, the perfect wife with the perfect smile. Yet beneath the surface, rebellion simmered. Perhaps it was the way Matteo had touched her earlier, a possessive brush of his fingers at her waist, a silent warning. Perhaps it was the knowledge that, no matter how much control he wielded, she could still push him.

And so she did.

The music shifted to something slower, sultry. Couples moved onto the dance floor, bodies pressed close, whispering secrets between the notes of the melody. Isla didn’t wait for Matteo to offer. Instead, she turned toward Luca, his ever-present smirk lighting up as she extended a hand.

“Dance with me?” she asked, her voice lilting, teasing.

Luca hesitated, flicking his gaze toward Matteo across the room. But when Isla arched a brow, challenging him, he took her hand.

The moment she stepped into his arms, she felt the shift in the air. A heat on her back. Matteo was watching. She could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy, dangerous. Still, she let Luca lead her, let his hands settle lightly at her waist, let herself laugh softly at whatever charming quip he offered.

It was a game. And she was playing to win.

“You like trouble, don’t you?” Luca murmured, guiding her across the floor with smooth confidence.

Isla let her lips curve into a smirk. “I like reminding certain people that I’m not a possession.”

Luca chuckled, but there was an edge of wariness in his expression. “Careful, sweetheart. Matteo doesn’t like to be reminded of things he already knows.”

As if summoned, Matteo moved.

He was on them in an instant, his presence slicing through the space like a blade. Without a word, he took Isla’s wrist and pulled her from Luca’s grasp, his movements controlled, measured—but beneath them, a storm raged.

“Enough,” he murmured, his voice low, possessive.

Luca raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk never quite fading. “She asked me, boss.”

---