The engagement didn't end—it shifted.
The applause still echoed faintly through the ballroom, glasses clinking, voices rising again in controlled elegance as if nothing scandalous had just happened.
But for Lucien De Rossi, nothing about this night felt controlled anymore.
Not with her.
His hand was still locked around Charlène's waist as he led her off the raised platform, his grip firm enough to remind her—and everyone watching—that she wasn't free.
He steered her toward a corner where three of Italy's most ruthless investors waited.
Lucien's gaze swept over the room, noting the way the men's eyes followed the curve of Charlène's hips and her breast.
His jaw tightened. Without a word, he unbuttoned his charcoal pinstripe blazer and draped it over her shoulders.
"Stay here. Wear this. Cover yourself," Lucien commanded, his voice a low, warning vibration. "If I see you talking to anyone, especially a man, I will make sure they never speak again. Understood?"
