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🚨 THE ICE KING’S DEBT: WHEN THE STRANGER RETURNED HIS RING / Chapter 5 / 8

Chapter 5 - DANCE WITH THE DEVIL

"Under the crystal chandeliers, the sharpest blades are hidden in smiles."

The Grand Ballroom at the Drake Hotel was illuminated by sprawling crystal chandeliers. Wealthy elites, politicians, high-ranking mobsters, and media magnates filled the room, sipping champagne while string quartets played softly in the background.

Clara took a deep breath, adjusting her emerald green silk gown. The dress hugged her curves perfectly, contrasting brilliantly with her brown hair and warm skin. Around her neck sat a multi-million dollar diamond necklace on loan from the Rossi vault.

Beside her, Damian looked devastatingly handsome in a bespoke black Brioni tuxedo.

"Smile, my dear fiancée," Damian murmured into her ear, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine. His hand rested firmly on the small of her back, his touch surprisingly gentle yet possessively strong. "Everyone is watching."

"I feel like a lamb standing in a room full of wolves," Clara whispered back, forcing a brilliant smile for the surrounding photographers.

"You are with the biggest wolf in the forest," Damian replied coolly. "No one touches you while I breathe."

Suddenly, the crowd parted. An older man with silver hair, a cruel sneer, and a walking cane walked toward them, accompanied by a small army of bodyguards.

Marco Falcone.

"Damian," Marco purred, his voice like gravel. "Congratulations. The whole city is talking about the girl who managed to tame the cold Rossi heart. I had to see it with my own eyes."

Marco’s dark eyes swept over Clara, dripping with malice. "She is a beautiful thing, Damian. It would be a tragedy if something... unfortunate happened to her. Like slipping on the ice."

Damian took a step forward, shielding Clara behind his broad shoulder. His gray eyes turned into liquid nitrogen. "Try it, Marco. And I will burn everything you own to ashes while you watch."

Marco smirked, taking a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray. "Enjoy your evening, children. The night is still young."

As Marco walked away, Clara noticed something strange. A waiter passing by Marco slipped a small, folded piece of paper into the old mobster’s pocket.

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The kitchen was so quiet you could hear the distant murmur of the jazz trio outside, playing as if the world hadn't just tilted on its axis. Grant stared at the single sheet of thick parchment resting against the cold Italian marble. His breath caught, a shallow, ragged hitch that gave away his panic before his voice ever could.

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The silence that settled over the Ashford Hills grand terrace after my wedding ring hit the champagne glass wasn’t the polite hush of a high-society dinner. It was the breathless vacuum that precedes an explosion. Around us, smartphones remained elevated, lenses locked on Grant’s face as the pale gold liquid rippled around the platinum band.

The silence that settled over the Ashford Hills grand terrace after my w...

The morning light cut sharp angles across my kitchen counter, illuminating the printed email from Brookfield Academy like a neon sign pointing directly to Nathan’s downfall. Dr. Evelyn Mercer’s office phone rang twice before her brisk, professional voice picked up.

The morning light cut sharp angles across my kitchen counter, illuminati...

Clara’s archivist eye—trained to notice tiny, subtle details—instantly caught the waiter’s face.

It was Dominic. Damian’s most trusted underboss.

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