THE LIE THAT WORE A RING - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
You are reading THE LIE THAT WORE A RING, Chapter 2: Chapter 2. Read more chapters of THE LIE THAT WORE A RING.
The ballroom shimmered with opulence—golden chandeliers like falling stars, polished marble floors reflecting designer heels, and waiters gliding like ghosts between clusters of elite laughter. It was the annual Charity Hearts Gala, where the rich came to pretend they cared and the beautiful came to be seen.
Alina stepped out of the car and felt dozens of eyes brush over her. That was her favorite part—the silent hush a room took when she walked in. Like a secret being whispered too loudly.
Her black dress was flawless. Her hair pinned up just enough to show the nape of her neck. She knew exactly how to weaponize elegance.
She wasn’t looking for love tonight. She was looking to be remembered.
As she accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, she caught sight of him.
He stood near the auction table, tall and quiet in a navy tuxedo that hugged his shoulders with effortless wealth. Salt-and-pepper hair, sharp jaw, and eyes that seemed tired of pretending to enjoy the party. He wasn’t mingling. He was observing.
Dominic Crane.
Alina recognized him from the tabloids. Billionaire investor. Widower. Rumored to have withdrawn from society after the sudden death of his wife three years ago. Father to two children—one boy, one girl. No scandals, no mistresses. Not her type of man. Too clean.
Yet, their eyes met across the room—and in that moment, the crowd vanished.
She tilted her head slightly, a silent challenge. He didn’t smile. But he didn’t look away.
She turned and walked to the silent auction table, where rare paintings and week-long yacht trips were written in looping cursive on elegant cards. She pretended to read one. She didn’t have to look to know he was walking toward her.
"You're staring," she said without looking up.
"And you're used to it," came the low, calm voice beside her.
She smiled to herself before turning. Up close, he was even more striking. His presence didn’t scream power—it whispered it, like someone who never needed to raise his voice to command a room.
"I don’t believe we've met," he said, offering his hand.
"Alina," she replied. No last name. Not yet. "And you are?"
"Dominic Crane."
She gave a light laugh. "I know. Every woman in here knows."
He didn’t smirk, didn’t flirt. He simply nodded, watching her the way a man studies a painting he can’t decide whether to admire or distrust.
"Are you bidding tonight?" he asked.
"I only bid on things I plan to keep," she answered, sipping her champagne. "And you?"
"I came for the cause. But I stay for the conversation."
"Is that what this is?" she asked, her eyes gleaming.
He gave the barest flicker of a smile. "That depends. Are you here alone?"
"Aren’t we all?"
He looked down at her then, really looked. There was something in his expression that surprised her. Not lust. Not hunger.
Curiosity.
A man like him should’ve walked away. She was trouble dressed as temptation, and he had children, legacy, reputation. But he didn’t move. Neither did she.
For the first time in years, Alina didn’t feel like the one playing the game.
"You should be careful," he said suddenly.
"Of what?" she asked.
"Of being remembered by the wrong man."
She leaned in slightly. "Then remember me for the right reasons, Mr. Crane."
The rest of the night blurred—champagne, laughter, polite applause for overpriced artwork. But her focus never left him. And his never left her.
She didn’t know his story. Not yet.
But she’d already decided one thing:
She would be part of it.
Alina stepped out of the car and felt dozens of eyes brush over her. That was her favorite part—the silent hush a room took when she walked in. Like a secret being whispered too loudly.
Her black dress was flawless. Her hair pinned up just enough to show the nape of her neck. She knew exactly how to weaponize elegance.
She wasn’t looking for love tonight. She was looking to be remembered.
As she accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, she caught sight of him.
He stood near the auction table, tall and quiet in a navy tuxedo that hugged his shoulders with effortless wealth. Salt-and-pepper hair, sharp jaw, and eyes that seemed tired of pretending to enjoy the party. He wasn’t mingling. He was observing.
Dominic Crane.
Alina recognized him from the tabloids. Billionaire investor. Widower. Rumored to have withdrawn from society after the sudden death of his wife three years ago. Father to two children—one boy, one girl. No scandals, no mistresses. Not her type of man. Too clean.
Yet, their eyes met across the room—and in that moment, the crowd vanished.
She tilted her head slightly, a silent challenge. He didn’t smile. But he didn’t look away.
She turned and walked to the silent auction table, where rare paintings and week-long yacht trips were written in looping cursive on elegant cards. She pretended to read one. She didn’t have to look to know he was walking toward her.
"You're staring," she said without looking up.
"And you're used to it," came the low, calm voice beside her.
She smiled to herself before turning. Up close, he was even more striking. His presence didn’t scream power—it whispered it, like someone who never needed to raise his voice to command a room.
"I don’t believe we've met," he said, offering his hand.
"Alina," she replied. No last name. Not yet. "And you are?"
"Dominic Crane."
She gave a light laugh. "I know. Every woman in here knows."
He didn’t smirk, didn’t flirt. He simply nodded, watching her the way a man studies a painting he can’t decide whether to admire or distrust.
"Are you bidding tonight?" he asked.
"I only bid on things I plan to keep," she answered, sipping her champagne. "And you?"
"I came for the cause. But I stay for the conversation."
"Is that what this is?" she asked, her eyes gleaming.
He gave the barest flicker of a smile. "That depends. Are you here alone?"
"Aren’t we all?"
He looked down at her then, really looked. There was something in his expression that surprised her. Not lust. Not hunger.
Curiosity.
A man like him should’ve walked away. She was trouble dressed as temptation, and he had children, legacy, reputation. But he didn’t move. Neither did she.
For the first time in years, Alina didn’t feel like the one playing the game.
"You should be careful," he said suddenly.
"Of what?" she asked.
"Of being remembered by the wrong man."
She leaned in slightly. "Then remember me for the right reasons, Mr. Crane."
The rest of the night blurred—champagne, laughter, polite applause for overpriced artwork. But her focus never left him. And his never left her.
She didn’t know his story. Not yet.
But she’d already decided one thing:
She would be part of it.
End of THE LIE THAT WORE A RING Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to THE LIE THAT WORE A RING book page.