My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(2)

Emilie snatched the Bond No. 9 from Savannah, applying a generous coat to her lips. “He’s in hotels and hospitality. Owns a little chain called The Grand Regent. You might’ve heard of it.”

The Grand Regent began as an exclusive, invite-only resort before metastasizing into more branches than the Hilton. So, I gathered Pompous von Fancypants wasn’t strapped for cash.

In fact, obscene generational wealth was the unspoken entry ticket to tonight’s event.

The 303rd Chapel Falls Royal Debutante Ball was a glorified dog show that attracted every billionaire and mega millionaire in the state.

Fathers paraded their cotillion-bred daughters around the Astor Opera House in hopes they’d perform well enough to be courted by men in the same tax bracket.

I hadn’t come here to find a husband.

Before my birth, Daddy had already promised me to someone, which the diamond ring on my engagement finger reminded me.

This always seemed like a problem for the future—up until I discovered the official announcement on the society pages two days ago.

“I hear Romeo is dead-set on becoming the CEO of his daddy’s company.” Lord, Sav was still droning on about him. Were they planning on penning the man’s Wikipedia? “Already, he’s a billionaire.”

“Not just a billionaire. A mega billionaire.” Emilie fingered a marquise diamond on her Broderie bracelet, her poker tell. “And he’s not the type to blow it all on yachts and gold toilet seats or funding self-indulged pet projects.”

Sav snuck a desperate glance at them through her compact mirror. “Do you think we can be introduced?”

Emilie’s eyebrows pinched together. “Nobody here knows them. Dal? Dallas? Are you even listening to the conversation? This is important.”

The only grave situation I’d witnessed was the lack of shortbread, too.

Reluctantly, I fixed my eyes on the two men that parted the thick crowd of silk chiffon and frozen updos.

They both stood at least six-three. A towering height that made them look like giants trying to squeeze into doll houses.

Then again, nothing about them was conventional.

Their similarities ended with their height. Everything else was arctic opposites.

One was silk and the other leather.

If I had to guess, the live-action Ken clone was von Bismarck.

Dirty-blond, square-jawed, and adorned with shabby whiskers of stubble, he looked like something only a Walt Disney illustrator could sketch.

The perfect European prince, down to the scandalous blue eyes and Roman-like structure.

Silk.

The other man was a polished savage. Menace decanted into a Kiton suit.

He wore his inky hair in a gentleman’s cut, trimmed into submission. Everything about him seemed carefully crafted. Intentionally designed to deliver lethal doses straight into a woman’s bloodstream.

Sharp cheekbones, thick brows, lashes I’d risk jail time for, and the frostiest gray eyes I’d seen to date.

In fact, his eyes were so light and frosty, I decided they had no business coupling with his otherwise tan Italian features.

Leather.

“Romeo Costa.” Savannah’s voice curled with longing as he breezed right past us, heading toward the table reserved for VIPs. “I would let him ruin me as thoroughly and impressively as Elon Musk destroyed Twitter.”

“Oh, I would let him do heinous things to me.” Emilie toyed with the blue diamond on her neck. “Like, I’m not even sure what they might be, but I’d still be down for them, you know?”

It was a problem. Being church-going, Bible-thumping, virginal Southern girls in the twenty-first century.

Chapel Falls was known for two things:

1) Its filthy-rich residents, most of them conglomerate owners of high-profile Georgian businesses.

And 2) being extremely, outdatedly, lock-your-daughters-up conservative.

Things worked different down here.

Virtually all of us never went further than sneaking a few sloppy kisses before marriage, even though we all scraped the age of twenty-one.

While my well-mannered friends kept their glances discreet, I had no trouble glaring.

As a nervous host led them to their table, they surveyed their surroundings. Romeo Costa with the dissatisfied detachment of a man who had to feast on back-alley garbage for dinner; and von Bismarck with amused, cynical playfulness.

“What are you doing, Dal? They can see that you’re staring!” Savannah nearly fainted.

They weren’t even looking our way.

“So?” I yawned, swiping a flute of champagne from a tray hovering in my periphery.

While Sav and Emilie gushed some more, I set off, passing banquet tables lined with imported sweets, champagne, and goodie bags.

I did the rounds, greeting peers and distant family members if only to access the catering trays on the opposite end of the room. I also kept an eye out for my sister, Franklin.

Frankie was here somewhere, probably setting a small fire to someone’s toupee or losing the family fortune in a game of cards.

If I was branded the lazy one, with the lack of ambition and abundance of free time, she was the designated banshee in the Townsend household.

I had no idea why Daddy brought her here. She was barely nineteen and interested in meeting men a little less than I was interested in chewing unsterilized needles for a living.

Strutting in my limited-edition Louboutins—five inches, black velvet, and needle-thin heels made of stacked pearls and Swarovski crystals—I offered smiles and blown kisses to everyone in my path until I bumped into another body.