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Elena Bellini knows how to survive in a world where beauty and poise are a currency of their own. A polished presence at Milan's most elite galas and Brera's private estates, she keeps her heart guarded until one reckless night shatters her carefully built walls. He was a stranger cloaked in mystery. Their chemistry was undeniable. One night. No names. No promises. But weeks later, Elena is facing the consequences of that night and the identity of the man she slept with changes everything. Matteo Ricci, ruthless billionaire and Italy's most sought-after bachelor, is the father of her child. Known for his cold ambition and untouchable status, Matteo doesn't do complications until Elena walks into his office with a secret that ties them together forever. To protect her reputation and his empire, Matteo proposes a contract marriage: a calculated arrangement with strict boundaries. No love. No mess. Just convenience. But as passion resurfaces and their fake vows become dangerously real, the lines begin to blur. Now, Elena must choose between the security of the life she's been offered and the chaos of a love she never expected. And Matteo must face the one thing money can't control the woman who's carrying his child, and the feelings that could cost him everything. Dark Love is a sizzling billionaire romance where one night sparks a lifelong entanglement, and love just might ruin the deal of a lifetime

Chapter 1 The Art of Control

Elena Bellini stood in the center of the gallery, bathed in soft light that spilled from antique sconces, her heels silent on the polished marble floor. A striking figure in a tailored navy dress, she looked as though she had stepped from the brush strokes of a Renaissance portrait-grace carved into every gesture, elegance woven into her very silence.

The room buzzed around her, hushed voices wrapped in cultured accents, champagne flutes glittering beneath crystal chandeliers. It was a private showing in Brera-an exclusive event, by invitation only-and Elena moved through it with the fluency of someone who belonged, yet never quite participated. A smile here, a nod there, but never too long. Never too close.

She preferred it that way.

"Bellini," called a familiar voice. Giulia Renaldi, museum director and minor royalty in Milan's art world, approached with her signature bold lipstick and velvet wrap. "How do you always manage to look so composed? I'd melt under this kind of scrutiny."

Elena accepted the compliment with a soft smile. "It's the lighting. And practice."

Giulia laughed, looping her arm through Elena's. "You're too modest. Come-there's a collector from Paris who insists he won't buy unless you personally tell him the Giacometti is worth the price."

It was always like this. Elena had built her reputation on more than her eye for art-she was a cipher for desire, a curator of dreams sold for seven figures. People trusted her because she revealed nothing. They mistook mystery for virtue. That, too, was by design.

The Giacometti sold before midnight.

She lingered after the gallery had emptied, standing in the hush of the quiet room, alone at last with the works. Silence was a luxury she allowed herself only in stolen moments. Beneath the polish and charm was a woman who had learned too early how to build a fortress from grace, to survive a life where dependency meant disappointment.

Her phone vibrated. A message from her assistant:

Masquerade Gala – invitation confirmed. 9 p.m. at Palazzo Calvi. Dress code: decadent.

Elena stared at the screen, her reflection faint in the glass. She wasn't impulsive. She didn't do gala decadence unless it involved collectors and contracts.

But tonight...

She needed something different. A breach in the routine. A reminder that she was still flesh beneath the artifice.

---

The Palazzo Calvi loomed against the Milanese skyline, its baroque façade glittering beneath golden uplighting. Inside, shadows danced between masked figures, laughter echoing through frescoed halls thick with scent-jasmine, wine, anticipation.

Elena stepped from her car in a black velvet gown that shimmered like liquid ink, her mask a delicate gold filigree. She felt anonymous for the first time in years.

No names, no expectations. That was the allure.

He found her near the grand piano, a man cut from shadow-tall, composed, eyes sharp behind his own mask. They didn't exchange words at first. Just a glance. A spark.

Then a drink. A dance. A conversation laced with wit and glances that lingered.

He didn't ask who she was. She didn't offer.

"Come with me," he said, voice low and accented with something northern-Milanese, but darker.

She should have said no.

Instead, she let him lead her up the marble stairs, into a room lit only by candlelight and breathless possibility.

---

Morning came with pale light streaming between draped curtains. Elena blinked awake in silk sheets alone, the scent of him lingering on her skin.

No name. No number. Only memory.

She didn't feel ashamed. She felt alive.

But as she dressed in silence and stepped back into her world of measured steps and precise appearances, she didn't yet know-

That night had changed everything.

And in a matter of weeks, it would rewrite her carefully ordered life.

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