The Palazzo Ducale’s ballroom was a fever dream of decadence, its chandeliers dripping light onto masked revelers in silks and satins. The air hummed with Carnevale’s reckless energy—wine-soaked laughter, the pulse of a harpsichord, the scent of jasmine and intrigue. Isabella Moretti, twenty-five and radiant in a sapphire gown that clung to her curves, stood by a gilded mirror, her emerald eyes glinting through a filigree mask. Her marriage to Lord Giovanni Moretti, a union forged to save her family’s name, was a gilded cage—his touch cold, his heart colder. Tonight, she craved escape.

Her gaze caught on a man across the room, and the world stilled. He leaned against a marble pillar, his black velvet mask accentuating storm-gray eyes that burned into her. His tailored coat hugged broad shoulders, his posture both elegant and dangerous, like a panther poised to strike. Their stares locked, a silent vow woven through the chaos, her pulse racing as heat flooded her veins.

“Who is that?” she whispered to her confidante, Lady Sofia, whose fan fluttered like a nervous bird.

Sofia’s voice was hushed. “Il Fantasma—the Ghost. A shadow in Venice’s courts, some say a spy, others a fallen lord. He’s forbidden fruit, Isabella. Even for you.”

“Forbidden,” Isabella murmured, the word a spark to her kindling desire. She sipped her wine, its warmth no match for the fire in his gaze.

As if drawn by her thoughts, he crossed the room, the crowd parting like water. He stopped before her, close enough for her to catch his scent—sandalwood, leather, and a hint of sea salt. “A dance, signora?” His voice was a low growl, rich with promise, his gloved hand extended.

Duty screamed no, but her body betrayed her, her hand slipping into his, his grip firm and electrifying. The waltz began, and he drew her close, his hand low on her back, fingers brushing the curve of her spine. Her gown whispered against his thighs, each movement a caress, her breath shallow as his lips hovered near her ear.

“You move like a woman starved for freedom,” he murmured, his voice a velvet blade.

“And you dance like a man who promises it,” she countered, her tone bold despite the tremor in her chest.

His lips curved, a dangerous half-smile. “Freedom has a price, cara. One night, no masks, no lies. Just us, burning as we were meant to.”

Her body ached, a molten need coiling low. She wanted to say yes, to drown in his heat, but Giovanni’s shadow loomed—his spies were everywhere. The music ended, and she stepped back, her chest heaving. “I can’t,” she whispered, though her eyes screamed otherwise.

“Then find me when you dare,” he said, his gaze searing. He kissed her knuckles, his lips lingering, a brand on her skin, then vanished into the crowd.

Isabella stood trembling, her body alight. Sofia’s voice was a distant buzz. “What did he say?”

“Nothing,” she lied, but her dreams that night were of gray eyes and a voice that promised sin. She was already falling, and Carnevale’s spell only deepened the plunge.

Chapter 1: The Forbidden Glance

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