Chapter 129: Preparations

By the time the black sedan pulled up the gravel driveway of the Lake Como villa, the afternoon sun had started to bleed into a deep, warm orange over the mountains.

Isabella barely had her foot on the stone steps before two women in crisp uniforms were gently guiding her through the main doors.

Aaron was right behind her, his phone already pressed to his ear as he gave fast, low instructions in Russian to someone on the line, but he didn’t stop her from being ushered upstairs.

"Wait," Isabella said, turning her head back toward the sound of his heavy footsteps. "Where are we going? What is this?"

"Upstairs," Aaron said, taking the steps two at a time to catch up to her. He reached out, his big hand resting briefly against the small of her back. "You have an hour and a half."

"For what?" she demanded, standing her ground on the landing. "You haven’t told me a single thing about where we’re going. Is it a business dinner? A charity event? Am I supposed to wear a dress or a hazmat suit?"

Aaron paused, looking down at her stubborn, flushed face. A small, wicked smirk played on his lips. "It’s an event, Isabella. People will be there. You will be there. That’s all you need to know."

"You are infuriating," she snapped, her eyebrows pulling together. "You do this on purpose."

"I do," he agreed smoothly, not a single drop of shame in his voice. "Now go. The team has been waiting since three."

Before she could throw another insult at him, the stylists had already opened the doors to the large master suite.

The next hour was a complete blur of soft powder brushes, the quiet click of hairpins, and the subtle scent of expensive French perfume misted into the air.

Isabella sat in a high-backed chair, tilting her chin up whenever the makeup artist tapped her jaw.

She could hear the quiet murmur of Italian as two women worked in perfect sync around her, smoothing her short, wavy hair and carefully painting her lips.

She wanted to complain, but the sheer speed and skill of the crew kept her quiet. When they finally helped her stand up to step into the dress, the heavy silk glided over her skin like cool water.

It was a dark, emerald-green dinner gown. The front was deceptively simple, hugging her waist and hips in a long, liquid drape that pooled at her feet.

But as the stylist pulled the zipper up, Isabella felt the cool air of the room hit her bare back.

The fabric dropped into a dramatic, sweeping scoop, exposing every inch of her spine down to the top of her lower waist. It was quiet, elegant, and completely scandalous all at once.

"Oh, signora," one of the women whispered, her breath catching. "Bellissima..."

A heavy metal chain was draped around her neck, settling cool against her collarbones. At the center rested a large, drop-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds, a piece of jewelry so heavy and flawless it felt like a small fortune resting against her chest. It was the exact shade of her eyes.

Down the hall, Aaron stood in his own dressing room, pulling the cuffs of his dark shirt tight.

He wore a tailored black tuxedo, dark and sharp, without a single wrinkle. His blonde hair was combed back, his blue eyes cold and focused as he adjusted his watch. He looked like the kind of man who bought and sold entire shipping fleets over breakfast.

He walked down the quiet corridor, his polished dress shoes clicking against the marble floor, and stopped outside her door. He didn’t knock. He simply turned the handle and pushed the door open.

The words died straight in his throat.

Isabella was standing near the edge of the bed, her hands resting nervously on the front of her dark green skirt.

The soft golden light from the wall sconces hit the rich emerald silk, making it gleam like liquid fire.

Her dark, freshly styled bob framed her face in soft, touchable waves, emphasizing the sharp line of her jaw and the long, graceful slope of her neck.

Her skin was pale, smooth, and glowing, the deep green stone at her chest catching the light with every quiet breath she took.

And then there was her back. Soft, completely bare skin stretching all the way down, completely exposed to the room.

Aaron stayed frozen in the doorway.

His brain hit a wall. For three full seconds, the sharp, calculating mind of Aaron Kazarov completely shut down.

The air in his chest turned heavy, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek.

He stared at her, his eyes dragging slowly down the curve of her throat, over the dip of her collarbones, and down to the sheer, dangerous drape of the emerald fabric.

She looked ethereal. She looked like a painting someone had stolen from an old Italian palace and brought to life just to drive him insane.

A sudden, dark urge slammed into his gut. His hands twitched at his sides, his fingers itching to march across the room, lock the heavy oak door behind him, throw her over the edge of the bed, and pull that green silk straight down.

He wanted to press his mouth into the warm skin of her bare back until she was crying out his name, teaching her every single thing she had been missing in her useless, cold marriage.

He had to force his feet to move.

Isabella heard the heavy, deliberate thud of his shoes on the rug. The air in the room instantly changed, growing thick, warm, and heavy with a powerful, dominating presence that made the tiny hairs on her arms stand up.

"Aaron?" she asked quietly, turning her face toward the sound. "Is that you?"

He didn’t answer right away. He stopped two inches away from her, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his broad chest.

He reached out slowly, his large, calloused hand lifting to touch the side of her neck. His thumb brushed over her skin, hot and firm, just to prove to himself that she was real and not some cruel trick of his own head.

Isabella’s breath caught in her throat. His touch burned.

"You look..." Aaron started, his voice a low, rough rasp he didn’t even recognize himself. He cleared his throat, trying to pull his thoughts back together, but looking down at her painted lips made his head spin all over again. "You look dangerous, Isabella."

She felt a strange, fluttery panic erupt deep in her stomach. The sheer, suffocating weight of his presence was everywhere.

Blind as she was, her mind filled in the blanks, the broad line of his shoulders, the cold blue of his eyes staring down at her, the dark, lethal air that hung around him like a heavy coat.

He felt like the devil himself, standing in a sunlit room, offering her things she had no business touching.

"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to sound demanding.

She lifted her chin, trying to maintain her footing. "You still haven’t told me. If you think I’m going to walk out of this house looking like a green glass bottle without a reason—"

Aaron wasn’t listening. His gaze was glued to her lips.