TAKE ME UNDER SNEAK PEEK

    The sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the sky in a hue of pink and orange. It cast a warm and intimate glow over the streets of New York. The city was alive with the sounds of chatter, cars honking, and distant laughter. It created a symphony of humanity that pulsed through my veins. Once darkness fell, a new kind of energy would buzz to the backdrop of skyscrapers illuminating the sky. The modern buildings were a far cry from anything I could see back home in Lucca, Italy, and it was one of the many things I loved about the city. It made me wish I’d visited more often.

On this particular evening, the streets were bustling with people dressed in their finest. Some were on their way to dinners, Broadway shows, and other forms of entertainment. For me, the Met Gala was my end destination, an event I never imagined myself attending. It was too prestigious, catering only to those who lived much differently than me. They would arrive at the red carpet in expensive cars, while I took a cab until I was close enough to walk.

The early May air was warmer than usual, but it still felt cool on my naked arms. I rubbed them with my hands, hoping to ward off the chill as I approached The Metropolitan Museum of Art. I strolled past the long line of trees and benches. When I got closer to the wide granite staircase, I slowed, hesitating to continue. I’d walked up the famous steps plenty of times in the past, and I usually would have enjoyed seeing how people played instruments, read books, or simply lounged while contemplating life.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, I wanted to avoid the steps at all costs. The casual assortment of individuals who usually occupied the stairs would no longer be there, replaced by an electric atmosphere of cameras and flashbulbs. I couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation for the possibilities ahead. Only the rich and famous would ascend the grand steps this evening—which was precisely why I needed to avoid them. I was far from being worthy of the elite. 

The fact was, I had never been as financially strapped as I was at that moment. It was why feelings of imposter syndrome were haunting my psyche. I knew I didn’t belong here, despite my cultured façade.

I recalled the care and attention I'd put into my appearance earlier that evening. The expense of having my hair styled and my face made up was worth it. My eyes were smoldering, almost seductive, and my dark locks coiffed into a sophisticated updo. I had hardly recognized myself in the mirror of my hotel room when I took in my reflection. A luxury salon visit was a rarity, but I knew my limitations. I seldom required fancy hair and makeup in my line of work, making my experience with so much fuss practically non-existent. Calling in professional help for tonight had been a must.

My hand drifted up to smooth a strand of hair, now curled and pinned elegantly with a few loose tendrils cascading down the center of my neck and upper back. They ended just above the blood-red corset, intricately laced with a spill of scarlet chiffon flowing dramatically over my legs to brush the ground. The lavish gown and heart-shaped ruby necklace were donations from the renowned French designer, Madeleine Toussaint.

Madeleine was my mother’s childhood friend who had worked tirelessly to make her way in the fashion industry. She had a deep appreciation for my father's work before his passing, and it was by her invitation that I was here tonight. She understood the weight of my situation and what was at stake. The bedside promise I’d made to my father just days before his death required money—and lots of it. Madeleine had assured me that the guest list for the Met Gala would open the doors to the funding I desperately needed. 

Still, I couldn't shake my nagging doubts. As beautiful as the hand-sewn dress was, I had half a mind to ball up the cumbersome train—which, for all intents and purposes, was ridiculous—hail a cab to JFK airport and return to Italy. The red carpet and glare of media cameras were not for me. Being in the company of celebrities, musicians, fashion designers, and models would never be my forte, but I knew I had little choice but to endure it. Only the ultra-wealthy had the resources to support my father's work, which was far more important than my discomfort or awkwardness. I had to pretend to fit in and act as if I knew what I was doing. 

Focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, I forced myself to continue toward the grand staircase. However, the closer I got, the more my heart began to race. Anxious jitters threatened to overwhelm me, and I began to sweat to the point of feeling feverish.

Maybe if I just take a minute to sit down and collect myself…

I glanced behind me at the bench I’d just walked past, then turned to make my way toward it. I made to sit down but paused, realizing that sitting in this dress would be quite a challenge. It wasn't just the train that was an issue. All the voluminous layers of chiffon would be more than a little cumbersome. 

I pressed my lips tightly together and started the awkward attempt at gathering the skirt layers. I went to move them to one side so I could sit, but the corset was so snug, I could barely bend to collect the chiffon. My stomach roiled, and I absently wondered if it was something I ate or because the dress was pulled too tight.

I released an impatient breath but suddenly stopped when I realized I was being watched. I glanced up to the observing eyes of a man dressed sharply in a bespoke tuxedo. He stood under the shade of a tree less than twenty feet away, staring with apt curiosity.

Fabulous. Just what I need right now. An audience.

I tried to act indifferent to his apparent attention, but something made me pause and take a second glance.

The man looking at me was anything but ordinary. He was striking in the most captivating way. I judged him to be close to my age or slightly older, perhaps around thirty-five. He was tall, standing well over six feet, looking impressive in his black tuxedo jacket, crisp white shirt, and solid black bowtie. 

His dark brown hair was longer, but not too long, with the ends curling at his collar. The loose curls were styled haphazardly, framing a chiseled face and sculpted square jawline. It gave him an air of refined elegance, yet there was something raw around the edges of all that masculine perfection. There was a hint of danger that made him even more alluring, reminding me of Henry Cavill circa 2012.

I’d encountered many attractive men throughout my life, but none had ever compared to the man standing before me. He was as intimidating as he was tempting, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d look like without all that expensive clothing. A envisioned what it would be like to unfasten the buttons of his shirt, and spread my hands across the expanse of his chest, over his shoulders, and...

I felt a sudden stirring deep in my belly, and my face flushed with heat.

What the hell was that? 

The man was gorgeous, but my physical reaction to him was a bit much, and I internally scolded myself for being so ridiculous. I changed focus, intent on maintaining a modicum of grace as I resumed my attempt at sitting on the city bench. However, the pretense of poise was wishful thinking. To my horror, when I lifted the train of my dress, the pointed heel of my shoe caught one of the many hems, and I lost my balance.

“Oh!” I gasped, suppressing a curse as my flailing arms searched for something to hold onto. 

My current predicament should have been predictable. The idea that I could ever be graceful in a high heels and gown like this was laughable. I braced myself for impact as the ground rushed to meet me.

But instead of falling onto hard concrete, I landed against the hard chest of the dark and mysterious stranger. His grip was firm, with one hand wrapping around my lower back and the other curling around my upper arm.

I inhaled sharply, the sudden intake of breath allowing me to take in his tantalizing scent. He smelled almost as good as he looked. It was an intoxicating combination of sexy male and decadent sin. A flush of embarrassment warmed my cheeks as our eyes met. His gaze was reserved and assessing, making me feel as if he could see through to my most intimate secrets. 

I returned his stare, mesmerized by his incredible eyes. They were as dark as onyx with chocolate flecks that one could only discern if they were close enough—and boy, was I ever close. The intensity of his dark gaze sent a shiver down my spine, raising the hairs on the nape of my neck. 

My pulse thrummed from his proximity. A perfect stranger should not arouse these feelings from me. I was oddly turned on in all the best ways, yet I couldn't recall a time in my life when I felt more humiliated. I wasn’t sure how I was able to feel both humiliation and arousal at the same time.

“Are you alright?” he asked. His voice was as smooth as his appearance, and I was struck dumb, unable to find my voice to respond. 

Unease etched across his flawlessly chiseled features, and I realized I was gawking at him like a smitten schoolgirl. I blinked twice and shifted slightly back, forcing myself to focus. Clearing my throat, I gave him a quick nod. 

“I’m fine, thank you. It seems poofy layers are in vogue this season. I should have informed the dress designer about my terrible rapport with poof. We had a bad break up some years ago, and I swore I’d never go back.” 

A hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth, almost as if he were holding back a chuckle. He glided his hand down the length of my arm, resting near my elbow. 

“You’re pulse. It’s racing.”

“Is it?” I practically squeaked. I moved to pull my arm away, but he caught me and held firm to my hand.

Something dark smoldered in the depths of those ruthless eyes, and he seemed closer than he had been a few moments before. Our heads were only a foot apart, and I wondered if he would kiss me. Surely, I had to be mistaken. After all, we’d only just met, and I didn’t even know his name.

Still, I couldn’t stop myself from breathing in, needing to indulge in his scent once more. The tempting blend of clean pine and fresh water with his natural masculinity was a heady combination. It reminded me of that alluring smell of rain in the air just before a wild storm, tempting you to linger outside longer than you should. 

Much to my disappointment, he stepped back until we were a respectable distance apart, but he continued to hold my hand in his. His fingers grazed my palm until I remembered I didn’t have soft, feminine hands like most other women he probably interacted with. Mine were calloused from years of hard work. Feeling self-conscious, I pulled my hand from his. 

His onyx eyes flashed, and his brows pushed together. If I wasn’t mistaken, my action seemed to displease him.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Serena.”

“A name fit for a princess. I’m Anton.”

Adonis. Apollo. Ares. Anton. Of course, his name would sound like it belonged to a mythical God. Why wouldn’t it? Was Anton even the name of a God? 

Someone in my line of work should know the answer, but the minute I’d laid eyes on this alluring man named Anton, my brain had turned to mush. I was utterly captivated by him. It was as if he had cast an enchanting spell over me.

I bit my lower lip to stop swooning even more, then gave him a small smile.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Anton.”

“I can assure you—the pleasure is all mine,” he drawled.

Holy hell. 

Attempting to ignore how his comment made me feel, I fought the threatening blush. The effort was in vain. Despite my best efforts, embarrassing heat flooded my cheeks. Between his affluent attire and ruthlessly handsome features, this man was way too sexy for his own good.

His nearly black eyes shifted to linger on the ruby around my neck before falling to the swell of my breasts. His gaze stayed there only briefly but long enough for me to notice. I felt my flush deepen, but I didn’t mind this slow appraisal for some reason. It didn’t feel like inappropriate ogling but more like a show of appreciation.

“I’m on my way to the Met Gala. I assume that’s where you’re headed as well?” he questioned, looking pointedly at my dress. 

“If I can muster up the courage to climb those steps, then yes. I’m here by invitation from a friend, the designer of my dress.”

“Ah, I see. And your escort? Where is he, princess?” he prodded.

Escort? As in, my date?

I didn’t think people used such formal terms anymore.

“Oh. Um... no escort. This is just business.” My reply came out stilted and unsure. I couldn't quite understand why he was asking or calling me ‘princess,’ but it made my stomach flutter. 

My father had used that term of endearment for me. But with him, it was a fatherly thing said to his only daughter. With Anton, it seemed to take on a different meaning. Like I was the damsel locked in a tower and he was the rogue warrior sent to rescue me. After all, he had just saved me from a fall. What was he if not my knight in shining armor? I kind of liked the idea.

No. I really liked it—even though I knew I shouldn’t. I was too busy to entertain fairytales. 

My eyes focused on his, and I was instantly ensnared in his gaze. It caused my heart to do the sort of flip I hadn’t felt since high school.

“All business and no play? Such a shame,” he mused with a tsk-tsk. 

“Not really. These things aren’t my cup of tea,” I blurted without meaning to. But alas, my foolish blithering continued. “I mean… I just… These events are… I don’t know how to explain how I feel.”

“Try me,” he coaxed, as if it were so easy.

I looked away. I’d given lectures in front of hundreds of people, yet I could barely string more than four words together in front of this man. 

I bit down on my lower lip and contemplated ways to explain how I felt. I didn’t know how to describe my irrational fear about attending such a high-profile event, where I would be forced to interact with some of the world's most famous, influential, and wealthiest people. Or maybe it was because I was terrified of experiencing a monumental failure—a bitter destruction that would result in everything I’d ever worked for. But worse, failure would mean I’d never follow through on my promise to my father.

It was most likely a combination of all the above. 

Sweat began to bead on my brow, and I felt my stomach lurch. For the second time in ten minutes, I felt like I would be sick. However, I wasn’t so sure if it was from a tight dress or from my nerves. The feverish feeling had returned, and I was starting to think I was coming down with something. If I was going to be sick, I didn’t want it to happen in front of him. 

I brought my gaze back to meet his. The sexy stranger waited patiently for an answer I didn’t feel comfortable giving. 

“It’s complicated,” I tried to shrug off, suddenly overcome with the need to escape.

“Most things in life are, Serena.” His gaze was heavy and warm. It was like a blanket on the coldest winter day, making me want to get lost in all the comforts he could offer. 

Still, I didn’t want to admit my insecurities about not belonging—especially to someone who looked as confident as he did. This event was for the elite. For all I knew, he was among them, hailing from a prestigious lineage that I’d never measure up to. But at the same time, he didn’t come across as an arrogant snob like one would expect from someone who appeared beyond approach. He seemed genuinely interested in hearing what I had to say.

“A lot is at stake,” I told him honestly. “There are investors here that I need to connect with to keep the lights on. I know what to do and say, but I’m…” 

Not good enough.

But I didn’t admit the last part out loud. Instead, I paused and pushed my brows together in consternation. Something about this man made me want to divulge more about myself than I should. 

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“I guess I’m just not in a hurry to walk the red carpet. It’s intimidating, and I’m awkward at these sorts of things,” I admitted, pointing toward the museum.

“Is this your first time attending the Met Gala?” Anton asked, cocking his head to the side curiously.

“Yes. You?”

“First time. This isn’t really my scene. It’s become more about political statements and gaudy displays of wealth than anything else. I can think of better things to do with my money. These celebrity events are all the same. Once you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all.”

“You’re right about that. This isn’t really all that dissimilar to other events I’ve attended, although none of them have been quite this grand. You’d think attending them would get easier over time, but they don’t. If anything, they’ve gotten harder for me.” I looked down, focusing on an old, flattened wad of gum on the sidewalk. I wasn’t sure why I was divulging so much but found myself continuing. “I guess you could say my insecurities rule me, even when I know my emotions are irrational.”

“Emotions don’t have to make sense, Serena. They just have to make themselves known,” he stated as if it were that obvious. “You’re a beautiful woman. You belong here as much as the next.”

I slowly blinked twice, looking back up to meet his gaze as I processed his words. The heat of his stare stirred something inside me, and I suddenly felt astoundingly exposed. It was as if he could see beyond my red designer dress and borrowed ruby necklace and lay bare every secret I’d ever held dear.

I looked down again, then gave him a brief sideways glance. I wasn’t sure what game he was playing, but I wasn’t here for it. I had no time for meaningless flirtations—if that’s what this was. I needed to stay focused on what I set out to do tonight.

Reaching up, he placed his forefinger under my chin and tilted my head until all I could see were his endless onyx eyes. 

“Do you know what a trust fall is?” he asked. His head tilted to the side as he carefully assessed me. His countenance made me feel like an enigma that he was determined to solve. 

“Trust fall?” I shook my head slowly. “I can deduce what it probably means, but I’m not familiar with the term.”

“It’s the ability to fall without questioning whether everything will be alright in the end. It means blindly jumping into uncomfortable situations and irrevocably trusting someone or something to catch you if you fall.”

“So, you’re saying I should just go in there and trust that everything will be fine.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I don’t know you well, but you don’t strike me as a delicate wallflower.” He took my hand again and grazed his fingers along my calloused palm. “Sometimes pure grit is the thing that stops you from falling when you least expect it. Trust yourself.”

I pressed my lips together in a tight line. There may have been a time when I could do exactly as he suggested, but not now. Not anymore. Too much had changed, and too much was at stake.

“I don’t think I can do that—at least not with the confidence you’re suggesting.”

Something dark flashed across his face before it was quickly masked. He seemed upset—perhaps even slightly angry. But then he pressed his lips together and nodded slightly, seeming to come to a decision.

“Do you trust me, Serena?”

My brow furrowed. It was an odd request from someone who I’d just met.

“I barely know you, Anton” I replied hesitantly.

“I think we should remedy that,” he stated. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, his eyes showing just a hint of mischief before darkening with words unspoken. “Trust fall, princess. Let go and trust me to be your escort tonight.”

I didn’t know how anyone could wholly trust someone they barely knew—yet, strangely, I found myself wanting to do exactly that. Still, something told me that I wasn’t just accepting his offer to escort me to the gala. He regarded me with curiosity and desire, a look that seemed to delve into something deeper. It was as if he were demanding that I submit to unforeseen forces lingering just below the surface.

Trust fall.

The idea made me feel vulnerable and exposed, yet something about his unwavering onyx gaze made me want to give in. The obsidian depths held a captivating allure, and I found myself ensnared in a world of overwhelming mystery. Drawing me in like a moth to a flame, I was both entranced and wary.

I ignored the warning voice in my head that said I couldn’t afford this distraction, and freely accepted his outstretched hand. 

“Okay, Anton. I’ll trust you.”