Dante smirked at her. "You have good taste. For a slave."
Vierva feels a surge of anger and humiliation at Dante's condescending remark, her cheeks flushing hotly beneath the cool glow of the chandelier. She clenches her jaw, biting back the sharp retort that rises to her lips, and forces herself to meet Dante's smirk with a tight, brittle smile.
Former slave, she repeats silently, the words leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. Is that what he thinks I am? Some cheap, broken thing, rescued from the gutter and given a shiny new coat of paint?
The thought makes Vierva's stomach turn, a wave of nausea rising up to choke her. She wants to lash out, to throw the menu in Dante's smug, handsome face and tell him exactly what she thinks of his arrogance and his assumptions. But she doesn't.
I won't give him the satisfaction, Vierva tells herself, her fingers curling into fists beneath the tablecloth. I won't let him see how much he's gotten under my skin, how deeply his cruel words have cut. I am stronger than that.
Instead, Vierva leans forward, a glimmer of challenge sparkling in her sage green eyes as she holds Dante's gaze with a steady, unflinching stare. Her voice is low, carefully modulated, but there's a dangerous edge to it that sends a thrill down Dante's spine.
"I may have been born into a different life," she murmurs, her lips curling into a mocking smile that mirrors Dante's own smirk. "But I like to think I've acquired some refinement since then. Unlike some people, who were clearly born with a silver spoon in their mouth...and not much else."
It's a bold move, a direct challenge to Dante's authority and his sense of superiority. But Vierva knows she has to push back against his arrogance, has to assert herself in whatever small ways she can. Even if it means risking his wrath, his displeasure. Let him be angry, Vierva thinks, a dark satisfaction rising within her at the thought of challenging his expectations. Let him realize that I won't be a passive little doll.
Dante throws his head back and laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that echoes through the hushed dining room. A few heads turn their way, curious stares lingering on the couple before Dante's charismatic charm and Vierva's beauty draw them back into their own conversations.
He thinks this is funny? Vierva fumes internally, feeling the heat of anger and humiliation rise in her cheeks. He finds my defiance amusing? My existence, my struggles, my very being reduced to a joke for his entertainment?
Despite the fury simmering in her veins, Vierva maintains an outward facade of composure, her face a carefully crafted mask of indifference. She watches as Dante wipes a mirthful tear from the corner of his eye, his pale grey-blue gaze flicked back to her with a glimmer of something dark and hungry.
He's not angry, Vierva realizes, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. He's not even particularly annoyed. No, he's...intrigued. Amused. Entertained by my little show of rebellion.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in Vierva's mouth, a sense of disquiet and unease washing over her. She knows all too well the dangers of piquing Dante's interest, of drawing his attention in ways that go beyond the physical. And yet, here she is, dancing on the knife's edge of his temper and his whims, tempting fate with every word and gesture.
I should be more careful, Vierva chides herself, her nails digging into her palms as she fights the urge to squirm beneath Dante's penetrating stare. I should be the picture of obedience, the perfect little ornament he expects me to be. Anything less is courting disaster.
And yet, even as she thinks it, Vierva knows that she can't go back to being the passive, compliant creature she once was. The girl who let others dictate her choices, control her life, shape her very identity. No, she is different now. Changed. Forged in the fires of adversity and tempered by the weight of her experiences.