MELTING ICE

The day dragged on in a haze of confusion. My mind kept replaying the encounter with Damon DeMarco, his voice lingering in my thoughts like a haunting melody. I couldn't shake the way his gaze had made my skin tingle, or how, despite myself, I found myself drawn to him.

I had a presentation to focus on, a major client meeting that could make or break my upcoming collection. But every time I tried to concentrate, my thoughts would drift back to him. The way he'd looked at me. The way he made me feel seen—truly seen—in a way that no one ever had.

I pushed the thought aside, reminding myself that I had no time for distractions. The world of fashion was unforgiving, and I couldn't afford to let anything—especially a man—derail my plans. I had worked too hard for this, and I wasn't about to let anyone, no matter how captivating, pull me off course.

After the meeting, I returned to my office, trying to focus on the task at hand. But the nagging feeling in the back of my mind wouldn't go away. I needed answers. Who was Damon DeMarco? What was his story?

I grabbed my phone and pulled up a search engine. His name came up immediately, and the results were as polished as his tailored suits. Damon DeMarco—architect, entrepreneur, visionary. His architectural firm, DeMarco Designs, was behind some of the most groundbreaking skyscrapers in the city. He was hailed as a genius, a self-made mogul who had reshaped the skyline with his innovative designs.

But as I scrolled further, I stumbled upon something unexpected: a mention of his family—La Mano Nera.

The name made my stomach drop.

La Mano Nera. The Black Hand.

The mafia.

I stared at the screen for a moment, trying to process what I was seeing. Damon DeMarco, the man I had danced with last night, was not just a wealthy architect. He was also the head of one of the most powerful and dangerous criminal syndicates in the city.

I felt a chill run down my spine. How had I not known? How had I been so blind to the warning signs?

And then, as if on cue, my phone buzzed with a text message.

"Vivienne, dinner tonight. We need to talk. Your parents and mine have decided it's time for us to meet. – Damon"

I stared at the message for a long moment, my heart pounding in my chest.

Dinner.

Meet.

It wasn't just dinner. It wasn't just a casual meeting. It was arranged.

I had no idea what to expect, but I knew one thing for sure: I was about to step into a world I knew nothing about.

---

The evening came too quickly. I stood in front of my full-length mirror, adjusting the hem of my dress. I hadn't even been given a heads-up about this dinner, yet here I was, about to meet Damon DeMarco again. And this time, it wasn't just a chance encounter.

I had no idea what was going on between our families, but the suddenness of this dinner felt like a setup. My mind raced, wondering what my parents were thinking, why they hadn't told me sooner. Why hadn't they warned me about Damon?

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. Whatever this was, I had to face it. I couldn't back out now.

When I arrived at the restaurant, a sleek, dimly lit place tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, I was greeted by a host who led me to a private table in the back. The atmosphere was quiet, intimate, but there was something about the place that felt… off.

I didn't know what I was expecting, but this wasn't it. The entire room felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

And then, as if on cue, Damon walked in.

He was dressed in another perfectly tailored suit, his hair neatly styled, his expression unreadable. The moment he stepped into the room, the energy shifted. It was like he commanded the space without even trying.

"Vivienne," he said, his voice smooth and deep, his eyes locking onto mine. "I'm glad you could make it."

"Of course," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "I wasn't given much of a choice."

He raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I know. But I'm glad you're here all the same."

I didn't know what to make of him. The man I'd danced with was nowhere to be found. In his place was someone colder, more calculating. The shift in his demeanor was subtle, but it was there.

"Shall we sit?" he asked, gesturing to the table.

I nodded and took my seat, trying to ignore the way my heart raced in my chest.

"So," I began, trying to break the silence, "what's this all about? Why am I here?"

Damon leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving mine. "You know how our families have been growing closer recently."

I nodded, my mind racing. I had noticed the sudden increase in social gatherings between our parents, but I hadn't thought much of it.

"Well," Damon continued, his voice measured, "it seems they've decided it's time for us to… formalize the relationship."

I blinked, unsure if I was hearing him correctly. "What do you mean, formalize?"

His lips curled into a small smile, but there was no warmth in it. "Our families have been discussing an arrangement. A marriage, Vivienne."

I froze, the words hitting me like a punch to the gut.

Marriage?

My mind went blank. I couldn't process it. This wasn't real. It couldn't be.

"Are you serious?" I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Damon's expression didn't change. "I'm afraid so."

I could feel the weight of the room pressing down on me, the silence thick and suffocating. My thoughts were spinning, my heart pounding. This wasn't just about business deals or family alliances. This was about my future—my entire life.

I looked at him, trying to gauge his expression, but all I saw was that same cold, calculating look I'd seen earlier. He wasn't just the charming man I had danced with. He wasn't just the architect. He was something else entirely.

And suddenly, I realized—this was no longer just a game.

This is real.