CHAPTER 43: A SPELL

’What did he mean by that?’ She wondered, blinking up at him in disbelief.

Their marriage was nothing but an arrangement, a contract written in ink. There had been no vows, no priest, no church, no exchanged rings. Yet here he was, speaking as though they had sworn eternal devotion beneath an altar.

And worse, he sounded... drunk.

Her gaze drifted to his face. His eyes were slightly glazed, his lips curled into a crooked, sheepish grin. A faint rosy hue colored his cheeks, betraying the alcohol that coursed through his veins.

Alisha’s eyes narrowed. "Are you drunk?" she asked flatly, her voice caught between irritation and disbelief. She tilted her head toward the wall, and sure enough, there was an entire line of bottles, some still half-filled, most were empty. Her patience snapped.

"Are you kidding me right now? Why would you drink here, of all places? Couldn’t you at least wait until we got home? If you knew you were going to get drunk, you shouldn’t have bothered coming in the first place."

He had insisted on being present at the fashion show, telling her his presence would silence rumors and convince the media that their marriage was real. But stumbling around intoxicated was the last thing she needed on a night already riddled with chaos.

"Shhh..." Dante raised his finger and pressed it lightly against her lips, cutting her words short. His eyes softened. "You’re always yelling at me. Can’t you... just once... speak gently?"

Her first instinct was to bite his finger clean off. The nerve of him. But instead, she bit back the retort swelling inside her chest and stayed quiet, though her eyes burned with irritation.

Satisfied, Dante let his finger trail away from her lips, sliding down to her waist. His hand settled firmly there, his thumb brushing just above her hipbone, dangerously close to forbidden territory. The warmth of his palm seeped through the thin fabric of her dress, making her tense at the sudden intimacy.

And yet, she didn’t hate it. Not in the way she thought she would. His touch was firm but oddly grounding, igniting a confusing warmth she wasn’t prepared to feel.

"You rocked that runway," he murmured, sincerity dripping from his voice. "That was the first time I’ve ever seen you perform live. And Eva, you blew my mind."

"T-thank you," she stuttered despite herself.

Dante’s brows furrowed, confusion crossing his features.

"You don’t need to thank me for saying the truth. You’re beautiful, Eva," he continued, his grin widening with the reckless charm of a boy who’d just discovered alcohol. "It’s only a matter of time before you climb back to the top of the ladder, like the star you were born to be."

Her head dipped low, her fingers curling into her palm. "That’s not what I meant," she whispered. "I wasn’t thanking you for that." She drew in a shaky breath, forcing herself to meet his eyes again. "I was thanking you for saving me. At the Met Gala... and tonight. You saved my life twice. I owe you, Dante."

The air between them thickened with something unexplainable. She didn’t know what this atmosphere was—peaceful, yet intense. Too still. Too foreign.

She’d only ever given herself to one man before. Nathan had been her first love, her first everything. And yet he had betrayed her, shattering the very idea of love she’d once held sacred. Since then, her heart had been sealed behind stone walls. But now, under Dante’s drunken gaze, she felt those walls tremble.

His hand gently tilted her chin upward, forcing her eyes to lock with his.

Her breath caught. He was close. Too close. So close she could smell him—his intoxicating cologne laced with the faint traces of cigarette smoke and the sharp bite of whiskey. The mixture was sinful, heady, and it knocked the air from her lungs.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear.

Her lips parted instinctively, her pulse racing like a drumbeat in her ears. Dante’s gaze dropped instantly, dark and hungry, his breath brushing against her parted lips. Slowly, he leaned forward, narrowing the gap that pulsed between them like a living flame.

And then—

"I’m sorry I’m late. Don’t tell me you drank everything, Dante."

Rico’s voice.

The spell shattered.

Alisha shoved Dante back in a panic. He staggered, nearly toppling over his own feet, and she quickly grabbed his arm to steady him.

Rico stood at the rooftop entrance, awkward as a thief caught in daylight. "Did I interrupt something?" he asked carefully.

"Get out," Dante barked, his voice sharp, his glare burning holes through Rico. "Get out!"

Alisha rolled her eyes. "Will you stop moving?" she snapped at him, tightening her grip on his arm. "You’re drunk. Try standing still for once."

Still glaring at Rico like a sulking child, Dante obeyed her words but his jaw remained tense.

"I think you should go with Rico for now," Alisha said firmly. "I’ll meet you both in the car." She handed him over, though Dante’s glare never left Rico, as though he wanted to skin him alive.

Her patience ran thin, and she turned away with an exhausted sigh.

"I swear to God," Dante growled under his breath as Rico dragged him toward the stairwell, "if you ever interrupt me again, I’ll hide every last one of your skincare products. Especially your nail polish. You’ll never see it again."

Rico scoffed, unbothered. "Funny of you to think I’d keep them where you could find them." His eyes flicked down to the cluster of empty bottles. "Unbelievable. You drank everything. Those were imported wines worth a fortune. Couldn’t even leave me a drop."

"Why," Dante hissed, his steps heavy, "Did you have to come right now?" His words slurred, but the frustration was clear.

Rico only smirked. "Looks like you’ve already developed a thing for your wife, Dante. This is the second time I’ve seen you two so close."

"Shut up," Dante mumbled, dragging his hand down his face. "You just had to ruin everything."

He’d been fine—calm, even when he thought he was alone. But the moment Alisha stepped into his orbit, he lost every ounce of composure, every shred of control.

Meanwhile, Alisha left them behind and found Maxine pacing furiously in the hallway. Her manager’s face was flushed with rage as she argued with Bethany, who lounged carelessly in her chair, unbothered by the storm.

"I’ll find proof of what you did," Maxine spat, her voice sharp as a blade. "And when I do, I’ll sue you for sabotaging my artist."

Bethany’s lips curled in a mocking smile. "You’re just a manager. What can you possibly do?"

Maxine was about to throw a fist, but Alisha caught her wrist.

"Don’t," she said calmly. "She’s not worth it."

Maxine gritted her teeth, barely holding back. She knew Alisha was right. Her reputation was gold in the industry, but a public scandal could ruin her if she let Bethany bait her into acting recklessly.

With a sharp exhale, Maxine grabbed her bag and stormed out.

"That bitch is working with Katherine, no doubt," she muttered when they regrouped outside. "But thankfully, the videos didn’t go the way they planned."

"What do you mean?" Alisha asked.

Maxine handed her phone over. "See for yourself."

The fan videos from the runway had gone viral—but instead of mocking her, the comments praised her abs, her confidence, and even her rose tattoo. The lace panties she wore had already sold out online. Thousands of fans wanted to know her workout routine.

"This," Maxine said with a smirk, "is the only reason Bethany’s head is still attached to her neck right now."

Alisha’s lips curved into a small, victorious smile. "This is perfect. More popularity."

But her smile froze when a familiar voice cut through the crowd behind her.

"Mrs. De Rossi," Nathan said smoothly. "I’d like a word with you. In private."