The grand ballroom of the Vanghue mansion was nothing short of extravagant. Every corner of the massive hall sparkled with wealth and power—golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the polished marble floors. The air was thick with the scent of roses and expensive champagne as servers in immaculate uniforms moved silently between clusters of high-society guests. The crowd was a sea of tailored suits and flowing evening gowns, every individual carefully curated to project perfection.
The introduction ceremony of Lilian Vanghue and Brad Curtis had drawn the crème de la crème of society. The union of two influential families was an event no one dared to miss, even if it was just to gossip about the motives behind the alliance. Enzo Lorenzo arrived fashionably late, as always, drawing attention like a magnet. His entrance was calculated, his presence commanding. The mafia heir had a reputation that preceded him, whispered about in hushed tones even among the elites.
Dressed in a sharp black tuxedo with a silk tie, Enzo cut an imposing figure. His angular jawline and piercing gray eyes made him striking, but it was the aura of danger around him that silenced conversations as he passed. He had no interest in the petty games of the upper class; he was here for a purpose, and his gaze scanned the room with precision. Every move he made spoke of power—controlled, deliberate, and unnerving.
---
Angela wasn't in the grand hall.
She couldn't stomach being there—not when every smile, every cheer felt like a dagger twisting deeper into her heart. She had slipped away the moment the ceremony began, her breath hitching as Mrs. Vanghue's voice rang out with saccharine sweetness: "Do you have any objections? Speak now or forever hold your peace."
It was unbearable. She fled to the guest restroom, barely managing to keep her composure until the door clicked shut behind her.
The luxurious bathroom, adorned with mirrors and golden fixtures, offered a temporary sanctuary. Angela leaned heavily against the marble counter, her hands trembling as she clutched its edge. Her reflection stared back at her—a shadow of the woman she used to be. Her once-vibrant eyes now seemed dull, rimmed red from holding back tears. Her complexion was pale, her cheeks hollow from sleepless nights and restless days. She looked... defeated.
The tears came, silent but relentless. Angela bit her lip to stifle a sob, not wanting anyone to hear her. She wrapped her arms around herself as if trying to hold her broken pieces together. The voices from the ballroom seeped through the walls—laughter, applause, and the clinking of glasses. Each sound was a painful reminder of how far she had fallen, of the betrayal that had brought her to this moment.
Her breathing was uneven, and her shoulders shook as she wiped her tears with trembling hands. She wanted to scream, to tear the whole mansion apart, but all she could do was cry in silence, feebly, like a wounded animal retreating to lick its wounds.
---
Enzo had excused himself from the sycophantic crowd after hearing enough hollow compliments and meaningless chatter. He didn't belong among these people; their world of pretense and polished lies disgusted him. But as he walked through the opulent hallways of the mansion, a soft sound caught his attention. It was faint, almost drowned out by the noise of the festivities—a muffled sob, coming from the guest restroom nearby.
He stopped, his sharp instincts kicking in. A peculiar sense of curiosity, or perhaps something deeper, urged him to move closer. The sobbing wasn't loud, but it was raw, unguarded, and filled with pain. It tugged at something within him, though he couldn't explain why.
Without making a sound, Enzo approached the door and stood just outside, his tall frame casting a shadow on the pristine floor. He didn't need to see inside to know that whoever was there was crumbling under the weight of something unbearable. For a moment, he hesitated. Was it his place to intrude?
But then, a memory surfaced—a fleeting image of a younger Angela Drake, confident and radiant, commanding the room with her charm. He had recognized her earlier in the crowd, though she had tried to blend into the background. She wasn't the same woman she had once been. The Angela Drake he saw now was broken, her spirit shattered.
Curiosity turned to something more—a mix of intrigue and empathy, though he'd never admit it. Enzo stepped closer, his hand hovering near the door handle. But he didn't enter. Not yet. Instead, he waited, his sharp ears catching every labored breath, every suppressed sob that echoed from within.
The once-proud heiress of the Vanghue family was now nothing more than a weeping shadow in the restroom. And for reasons he couldn't quite understand, Enzo Lorenzo felt compelled to intervene.
Angela stood near the lavish sinker, her trembling hands clutching her evening gown as though the fabric could hold her shattered composure together. The ornate mirrors lining the walls reflected her disheveled appearance—her usually radiant face streaked with tears, eyes swollen and red, and her lips trembling with unspoken words.
She leaned heavily against the marble sink, gasping for air as the weight of the evening crashed down on her chest like a tidal wave. The muffled sound of laughter and music from the ballroom filtered through the heavy doors, a cruel reminder of the joyous occasion unfolding without her consent.
Tears cascaded down her pale cheeks as she stared at her reflection, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I object to this marriage," she muttered under her breath, her voice raw with emotion. "I object to all of it. To this farce of a life. To this family. To this love that was never mine."
Her hands trembled as she turned on the faucet, letting the cold water rush over her fingers. It did little to cool the fire of anger and sorrow burning inside her. She splashed her face, trying in vain to wash away the evidence of her tears.
As she leaned over the sink, her thoughts spiraled into chaos. Memories of her years with Brad surfaced—his warm smile, the way he used to hold her hand, the promises he whispered under the stars. It all felt like a cruel joke now, a beautifully wrapped lie that had unraveled before her very eyes.
And Lilian. Her stepsister's smug smile haunted her like a specter. Angela could still hear her voice dripping with false innocence, claiming she never meant to hurt her, all while stealing everything she had ever loved.
"I was such a fool," Angela choked out, her voice cracking. "How could I let this happen? How could I have trusted any of them?"
Her legs felt weak, and she slid to the floor, leaning against the sink cabinet for support. The cold marble tiles pressed against her bare arms, grounding her in the present as the sound of her sobs filled the room. She curled into herself, letting the weight of her pain flow freely.
Minutes felt like hours as she wept in solitude. She had always prided herself on her strength, on her ability to rise above the challenges life threw her way. But tonight, in this moment, she felt utterly broken.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed outside the restroom. Angela froze, her breath hitching as the doorknob rattled. She scrambled to her feet, hastily wiping her tears and straightening her gown, but it was no use. Her misery was etched into her face, and no amount of composure could hide it.
The door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside. It was a man, tall and impeccably dressed in a black tailored suit that accentuated his commanding presence. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his piercing gray eyes scanned the room before landing on Angela.
Angela's heart skipped a beat as their gazes locked. There was something unsettling about him—a quiet intensity that sent shivers down her spine. She quickly turned away, her fingers gripping the edge of the sink for support.
"Sorry," she muttered, her voice barely audible. "This restroom is occupied."
The man didn't respond immediately. Instead, he stepped further inside, his footsteps slow and deliberate. Angela's breath hitched as she felt the weight of his gaze on her. She turned to face him, her tear-streaked face pale but defiant.
"Did you not hear me?" she said, her voice firmer this time. "Leave."
The man's lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held a glint of curiosity. He studied her silently for a moment before speaking, his deep voice resonating in the quiet room.
"You're not like them," he said, his tone calm yet laced with intrigue.
Angela frowned, her confusion evident. "Excuse me?"
But before she could demand an explanation, the man stepped back, giving her one last lingering look before turning on his heel and leaving the restroom.
Angela stood frozen in place, her heart racing as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Who was he? And why did his words feel like they carried a hidden meaning?
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, her tears long forgotten as her mind replayed the encounter. For the first time that evening, her pain was overshadowed by curiosity—and a faint spark of unease.
Unbeknownst to her, Enzo Lorenzo, the heir to a powerful mafia empire, had just stepped into her life. And nothing would ever be the same again.