A love so pretty

Malone's estate glowed in the radiance of a silver New York sky, representative of old money and unshakable power. The drive unraveled like a rug of stars beneath the tires of black sedans and old Rolls-Royces. Golden sconces on the marble steps of the grand mansion of the estate spilled warm, honey-colored light onto the sea of arriving guests.

It was the kind of evening that they'd be talking about for months to come. Private. Luxurious. Coldly honed.

Crystal chandeliers dangled inside from vaulted ceilings like shooting stars. The ballroom was an awe-inspiring work of architecture white marble floor, arched gold-mirrored walls, and huge windows flung open into a garden twinkling with fairy lights. Waiters moved in stately unison, dressed in black vests and white gloves, carrying champagne on silver trays.

Anthony Malone stood near the balcony, jaw clenched behind his glass of bourbon.

He was wearing a tailored black tuxedo that hugged his frame in all the right places. His dark hair was swept back, effortlessly tousled, and his black eyes scanned the crowd with a weariness that didn't match the celebratory atmosphere.

"I see you're thrilled to be here," Jordan said beside him, smirking as he sipped his drink.

Anthony spoke not a word. He did not have to.

He'd already been paraded about six times and recognized his mother's trick. This was not a party. This was matchmaking in the guise of social nicety. He already saw her, by the door with a precisely made smile, herding another heiress towards him like a shepherd with a lamb.

"This is absurd," Anthony muttered, his voice low.

Jordan grinned. "It's your ball, Tony. You're the palace prince. You don't get to hate it."

Anthony's lids narrowed. "I didn't plan it. She did."

"Well," Jordan shrugged, "at least pretend like you're having a good time. People are looking for you to be dignified and blasé, not plotting an exit strategy."

He wasn't mistaken.

Anthony Malone had spent the better part of the last ten years building his fortune from scratch. He struggled his way to the top rung of the corporate ladder never resting on the family name. That alone made him a precious anomaly in New York society.

Tonight, though, only one thing was important: with whom he would dance, whom he would flirt, and with whom he might wed.

He detested it.

Bella Reyes cinched the black bowtie around her neck and tucked a loose strand of hair into her ear. The uniforms for the wait staff were crisp, formal a bit too stiff for her taste but she said nothing. Not when this gig paid three times her usual rate.

Aside from, standing here amidst the chandeliers, the designer clothes, the degree of luxury only ever dreamed in fashion magazines, was a strange kind of high. As laying her head on the window of a fashion shop, knowing she could never hope to afford what was inside.

But this evening, she wasn't on the outside. She was inside, moving through the gleaming elite like a ghost.

"Table seven calls for more champagne," her boss barked, scanning the room like a drill sergeant.

Bella nodded, balancing a tray of flutes as she worked her way through the crowd.

Her golden-brown eyes flashed from face to face thick-watched, hard men, women bedecked in sequins and diamonds, laughter that fell a little short of the eyes. She had worked affairs like this before, but there was something about the Malone Ball that was different.

More showy. More deadly.

She tried not to look at the outrageous gowns for too long. Her hands hurt to sketch them out, her head already dissecting the stitches, the shapes, the color palettes. It was the response of a designer one that never dissipated, no matter how many hours she spent serving drinks or cleaning up after rude guests.

Then she felt it.

The presence.

She didn't see him at first but she felt it. The kind of tension that tightens the skin and holds the breath.

When her eyes finally met his across the room, everything else slipped away.

Anthony Malone.

He was standing by the balcony, his gaze on her as if he'd been waiting all night to get a glimpse of her. Bella's heart skipped a beat, a flush creeping up her neck.

Don't be an idiot, she told herself.

But something in his eyes held her to the moment. It wasn't that he was devastatingly handsome he was. It was the way he looked at her, as though she weren't merely a face among sea-faces. As though he recognized more, something known.

And for one heart-stopping moment, she believed he knew her.

Not this one in this uniform, but the real Bella the dreamer who made sketches on the backs of till slips, who prayed into her pillow for one real chance to shine.

She wheeled away quickly, pretending to adjust the tray, her heart thumping.

Anthony hadn't meant to stare. But when he saw her short, pixie black hair curling into her face like a masterpiece, her golden brown eyes burning with contained intensity he lost track of where he was.

He'd seen her before.

Not like this. Not here.

Maybe it was a dream, or maybe the universe was having a joke with him, but he knew her face. He'd hunted for it. Waited for it.

And look, there she was.

Serving cocktails at his party, dressed as a maid and yet towered over every other woman in the room.

"Who's that?" he asked Jordan, nodding discreetly with his glass.

Jordan looked over. "The girl holding the tray? No idea. Catering staff, most likely."

Anthony didn't answer. He passed Jordan his drink and pushed his way through the throng, bobbing between sequined dresses and black-tie egos.

Bella felt him before she saw him.

And when finally she turned around, he stood in front of her.

Tall, commanding, and far too near.

"Working all night?" he asked, his voice as smooth as fine old whiskey.

She blinked, surprised by his directness. "Uh... yes."

"Take a break."

"I can't. I'm on duty."

He smiled, not the smile that promised but the smile that invited people to bend their rules.

"One dance," he added, holding out his hand.

Bella hesitated. Every cell in her being screamed at her to say no.

But her heart sighed yes.

Bella gazed at Anthony Malone's outstretched hand as if it was a trap wrapped in gold and glittering but still a trap.

One dance?

It had sounded harmless enough. But nothing about the man standing in front of her cried out for innocence. Anthony exuded power in that quietly confident way only men who owned part of a city were capable of. His intense dark eyes were weighed down with intensity, it was hard to catch one's breath. She wasn't sure if it was his fear or confidence that made her heart stumble.

"I really shouldn't," she said, tightening her grip on the rim of her tray.

"You're already the most interesting thing about this evening," he replied, his voice smooth and even. "You've been playing like you don't see me staring for the past ten minutes."

Her lips parted in shock she hadn't realized he had been staring at her so long.

He edged in a little nearer, not close enough to touch her, but close enough to make her skin prickle with a sweet shiver. "Say yes."

A touch of vulnerability in his voice pierced through her shields.

One dance.

She placed her tray on the nearest table, ignoring the flabbergasted expression of another waitress. "If I lose this job"

"I'll give you another," he said without hesitation, his lips lifting slightly. "A better one."

Bella laughed, a short incredulous sound. "Are you always this arrogant?"

"Only when I'm right."

And then, she slipped her hand into his.

The moment their fingers met, it was as if something fell into place like a key turning into a lock.

Anthony led her onto the ballroom floor, where couples already danced to the gentle strings of a live orchestra. When the violin soared into a haunting waltz, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in close to him than she was ready to be.

"You don't belong here," he whispered, the words just above nothing.

Her chin inched up. "And you do?

Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, a graceful contrast to the chaos pulsing in her chest. Bella had danced before at parties, in school but never like this. Never with a man whose presence melted her logic.

"You have that look," he continued, watching her. "Like you've fought your way through something just to be standing."

"I did."

"Good. So did I."

She blinked at him. "What is a man like you doing with a background of fighting your way through anything?"

Anthony's smile fell. "More than you'd imagine.".

For a moment, they were enveloped in silence, but not an uncomfortable one, a heavy one full of feeling neither could quite recognize. Bella, she had no clue what she'd expected to walk into this palace of expectation and money, but it wasn't this. It was not dancing with the most powerful man in the room and feeling perhaps, just maybe, he saw her.

Not the uniform. Not the check. Not the past.

Her.

"I don't know your name," he said, voice gentle now.

She hesitated. "Bella."

"Bella..." He said it like a discovery. "I'm Anthony."

She gave a small laugh. "I know."

They danced until the world spun. Until it didn't matter that she had bills to pay, dreams deferred, and a life besides this one. With every step, every turn, the lines between reality and dream blurred. The way he held her was intimate. The way he looked at her was wild.

And when the music stopped at last, Bella didn't want to let him go.

She had sensed it too keenly that tug. That in possible entwining. But life had a cruel propensity to call.

"I have to go," she said, sloping back, winded.

Anthony would not let go. "Stay."

"I can't."

"You don't even know what this is yet," he breathed, his thumb sweeping over her hand like a sigh.

She shook her head, laughing despite herself. "That's exactly why I have to leave."

He stood and watched her melt away in the crowd, black skirt billowing behind each step. She never looked back even once but Anthony's eyes didn't let her go until she was no longer there.

Deep inside, he knew already

This wasn't their last dance.

This was only the beginning.