Chapter 8

The chandeliers of the Palazzo Mocenigo had finally dimmed, their crystal teardrops catching the last remnants of the fading evening light filtering through the high, arched windows. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, sweat, and the lingering metallic tang of anticipation that clung to us like a second skin. We stood near the grand staircase, two shadows among a sea of peacocks, and I watched the crowd begin to thin. The masks we had worn all evening—my simple black velvet covering the upper half of my face, his intricate gold-leafed domino that hinted at the sharp, commanding jawline beneath—felt heavier now, as if they were slowly fusing to our skin, refusing to be shed. My heart was still hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a echo of the way his hand had gripped my hip in the dim alcove of the library, the way his thumb had traced the lace of my garter with deliberate, possessive slowness. I had been his princess there, under the watchful, hungry gaze of the crowd, but mostly, I had been his *baby girl*, the one he owned in every sense of the word. The transition from the public spectacle