The envelope was cream-colored, thick, and engraved in gold.
Rihanna found it waiting on her desk when she arrived the next morning.
Her name was handwritten in delicate cursive on the front: Ms. Rihanna Thompson.
She stared at it for a moment. Everyone else around her acted like they hadn't noticed it. But something in the air had changed. Quieter than usual. Tenser.
She opened the envelope.
Inside was a black and gold invitation.
"You are cordially invited to the Aurelio International Winter Gala."Hosted by Bianca Russo, Executive DirectorDress Code: Formal. Mandatory attendance for Division-Lead Invitees."
Rihanna read it twice before she looked up—only to find Mirella already by her side.
"You'll need to be fitted for a gown. The company provides a designer."Mirella's smile was courteous, but distant. "You've made quite the impression, Ms. Thompson."
Rihanna forced a polite nod. "I didn't expect this."
"No one ever does."
[Evening — Aurelio Winter Gala, Milan]
The venue looked like a palace pulled out of a dream.
Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead. Marble pillars towered on each side of the ballroom. Waiters glided past with trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. The music was classical, yet faint — just loud enough to fill the silence between stiff conversation and sparkling laughter.
Rihanna stepped inside, wearing the deep emerald gown chosen for her. Her makeup was soft but elegant. Her hair swept into a low bun. She had never worn something so expensive. Never felt so… seen. And yet, she had never felt less like herself.
She recognized no one.
Until she saw her.
Bianca Russo.
Standing near a circle of company directors, dressed in a fitted wine-red gown, her smile easy and graceful. She exuded calm, practiced confidence — the kind that was impossible to teach.
And then, she turned.
Their eyes met.
Bianca's smile deepened.
She walked toward Rihanna slowly, each step poised like a dance.
"Rihanna Thompson," she said, her voice warm and alluring. "Finally."
Rihanna's lips parted. "You know my name."
"Of course I do," Bianca said, leaning in slightly. "I'm the one who signed off on your transfer."
"Oh… I thought—"
"That it was Lorenzo?" Bianca's smile never faltered. "He requested it, yes. But it was I who approved it."
Something about her tone made Rihanna's skin prickle.
"You're very lucky, you know," Bianca continued. "It's rare for someone to make it into his division so early. He's… particular."
"Right," Rihanna replied, unsure what to say.
Bianca's eyes moved over her — not critically, but… knowingly.
"You wear elegance well," she said. "But be careful, Miss Thompson. In places like this, it's easy to confuse beauty for safety."
And just like that, Bianca was pulled away into another circle of executives.
Rihanna stood still, unsure if she'd just been complimented or warned.
Nearly an hour passed.
She smiled when expected. Nodded during introductions. Sipped her champagne and tried to ignore the ache of not belonging.
Until she felt it.
That familiar, subtle shift in the air. The same kind she'd felt that day behind the glass office door.
She turned.
And saw him.
Lorenzo Moretti.
He entered like he owned the room — dressed in a black velvet tux, collar slightly undone, dark eyes sweeping the crowd with boredom until they found her.
His smirk was slow, deliberate.
He didn't walk toward her immediately. He let her watch him move — exchanging pleasantries, nodding at officials, murmuring to investors — all while slowly closing the distance between them.
When he finally reached her, he leaned in — lips barely inches from her ear.
"You clean up nicely, Miss Thompson," he murmured.
She didn't know how to respond.
He pulled back, studying her face with a predator's patience. "Did Bianca warn you about me yet?"
Rihanna blinked. "Excuse me?"
He chuckled low. "She always does. Subtle things. Warnings dressed as compliments."
"She just said I was lucky."
"Mm," he said, sipping his drink. "That's her favorite kind of lie."
There was something in the way he said it. Not sarcastic. Not teasing. Like he was telling her a truth she wouldn't recognize until it was too late.
"I didn't think you'd come," she said, trying to change the subject.
"I always come to the gala," he replied. "Bianca insists. But I stay for the interesting ones."
"Interesting?"
"You."He clinked his glass gently against hers.
The air around them felt heavier. Her pulse quickened. Somewhere across the room, Bianca was watching them — her expression unreadable.
Rihanna knew she should step back.
But she didn't.
Because for the first time that evening… she felt seen.
And it was terrifying.