Chapter 4 - The Opera Box and the First Real Spark
The Lyric Opera House was an opulent cathedral of gold leaf, crimson velvet, and
century-old crystal chandeliers.
By 8:00 PM, the grand foyer was packed with Chicago’s elite—governors, foreign
ambassadors, old-money dynasties, and the reigning titans of industry.
When Enzo Romano stepped out of the black armored Maybach at the curb and
offered me his hand, the wall of press cameras exploded into an absolute frenzy.
"Mr. Romano! Over here!"
"Is it true? Are the rumors of the engagement confirmed?"
"Miss Parker! Look to your left!"
My breath hitched in my throat as dozens of high-intensity flashes blinded my
vision. I was wearing an emerald-green silk crepe gown with an asymmetrical
off-the-shoulder neckline and a daring backless cut that Enzo had personally had
delivered to my apartment three hours earlier.
Before the panic could settle into my chest, Enzo’s arm slid smoothly around my
waist, pulling me firmly against his side.
"Breathe, little bird," he whispered near my ear, his voice a steady anchor in
the sea of chaos. "Keep your eyes on me."
I looked up at him.
He was wearing a classic black tuxedo with a satin lapel, his jet-black hair
styled with immaculate precision. Under the golden glow of the opera house
exterior, he looked devastatingly handsome—and utterly in control.
I placed my hand against his lapel, letting the six-carat Harry Winston diamond
catch the camera lights with every movement.
"I'm breathing," I muttered through my best radiant red-carpet smile. "If you
squeeze my waist any tighter, though, my ribcage might crack."
"You look stunning, Natalie," Enzo said quietly, his amber eyes dropping to my
exposed collarbones with a look so intense it made my knees genuinely weak. "Now
let's go make Cross choke on his champagne."
He led me through the grand rotunda, bypassing the general crowd, and guided me
up the private marble staircase to the Grand Tier private boxes.
Box 12 was the Romano family’s legacy suite—a massive, crimson-draped private
balcony with gilded armchairs and a private bar.
Directly across the horseshoe mezzanine, in Box 14, sat Julian Cross, Camille
Lauron, and Julian’s father, Richard Cross.
The moment we walked to the front railing of our box, Julian’s gaze snapped
across the auditorium.
I saw the exact second Julian’s drink stopped halfway to his mouth. His eyes
locked onto my emerald gown, then drifted down to the diamond blazing on my left
hand, and finally to Enzo Romano, who stood behind me, resting both of his hands
possessively on my bare shoulders.
Beside Julian, Richard Cross—the patriarch of Cross Logistics—suddenly turned to
his son, his face purple with fury, aggressively pointing across the auditorium
at Enzo.
"Look at that," I whispered, leaning back slightly into Enzo’s chest, unable to
hide the thrill of victory coursing through my veins. "Julian’s father looks
like he’s having a stroke."
"Cross Logistics applied for a forty-million-dollar maritime credit line with my
bank yesterday," Enzo murmured into my hair, his hands slowly smoothing down my
arms to rest over my hands on the velvet railing. "Richard Cross just realized
his son destroyed their last chance of approval by treating you like an option."
A strange, heavy warmth blossomed in my chest.
"You did that for me?" I asked, turning my head slightly to look up at him.
Enzo didn't look across at Julian. He was looking down at me, his eyes dark,
heavy, and completely unreadable.
"I protect what belongs to me, Natalie," he said softly.
"Enzo... this is fake," I reminded him, my voice barely a whisper over the swell
of the orchestra tuning their instruments below. "We have a three-month
contract."
Enzo leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive curve of my jawline,
lingering just beneath my ear. The sensation sent a violent jolt of electricity
straight to my core.
"Keep telling yourself that, little bird," Enzo murmured. "Because every time I
touch you... it doesn't feel like a contract at all."
Before I could formulate a single word, the heavy brass door of our private box
swung open.
May you like
Marco stepped into the shadows of the box, his face unusually pale, holding a
secure satellite phone.
"Boss," Marco whispered urgently. "We have a critical security breach at Port
Terminal 9. The shipment from Marseille was just intercepted by federal
agents... and your brother’s signature is on the manifest."
