The morning sun spilled weakly across the high-rise apartment, cutting through the thick glass windows of Adrian's penthouse like faint, diluted gold. Zara stood before the mirror in the guest room, brushing her fingers along the edge of the wardrobe door. Rows of dresses hung inside, each one carefully selected, expensive, and stunning—designer gowns with delicate silk, hand-sewn beads, and dramatic cuts.
But the one hanging dead-center, the one clearly waiting for her, made her stomach twist.
It was a crimson evening gown. Not just red, but venomous—sharp, mocking, the kind of dress that whispered danger with every thread. Its neckline plunged far too deep, its slit climbed indecently high, and the fabric seemed to be crafted not for beauty but for scandal.
Her heart clenched. She knew immediately what this was.
A setup.
Adrian had left no note, no explanation, but Zara understood. Tonight was the charity gala, one of the most publicized events in the city's calendar. Business tycoons, politicians, celebrities—everyone who mattered would be there. The press would flood the red carpet, snapping pictures, analyzing every detail, and dissecting every outfit.
And this dress wasn't meant to flatter her. It was meant to humiliate her.
Her fists curled at her sides as she stared at the mocking glint of the crimson fabric. "He thinks I'll look like a fool," she whispered, her voice shaking with a cocktail of fury and bitter amusement. "He wants me to be his little spectacle."
She turned slightly, catching sight of her own reflection in the mirror. For a moment, she almost saw herself as Adrian must: the enemy forced into a contract, the woman who dared challenge him. And this was his punishment—sending her into a den of wolves dressed like prey.
Her chest tightened. For years, Zara had trained herself to be cautious, composed, sharp-tongued when necessary but never reckless. She couldn't afford to be reckless. Her startup was already crumbling; her reputation had been dragged through mud after Adrian exposed her at the gala weeks ago. This contract marriage was her only lifeline.
And yet—if she wore that dress, she'd be finished.
The tabloids would call her desperate, tasteless, vulgar. Adrian's peers would sneer, whispering that he had chosen a woman of no class, no refinement. It would be her ruination.
Which, perhaps, was exactly what he wanted.
By evening, Zara stood rigid in the living room, clutching the hanger with the crimson gown draped across it. Adrian emerged from his study, dressed in a black tuxedo so perfectly tailored it seemed to belong to him like a second skin. His dark hair was swept neatly back, his cufflinks caught the light, and his presence filled the space like a storm cloud.
His eyes flicked once toward the gown in her hands. The faintest smirk curved his lips.
"You found the dress," he said lazily, as though he hadn't placed it there himself like a dagger.
Her grip on the hanger tightened until her knuckles whitened. "This?" Her voice was low, edged with steel. "This isn't a dress. It's a trap."
Adrian's smirk deepened. He poured himself a glass of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the bar and took a deliberate sip, his gaze never leaving hers. "A trap? No, Zara. It's a test."
She forced herself to meet his gaze, though her pulse was hammering. "A test of what? How much dignity I'm willing to lose?"
He stepped closer, glass in hand, his voice smooth but laced with menace. "A test of how far you're willing to play the part. You wanted this deal, didn't you? You wanted my money to save your precious company. Well, this is the cost. Appearances. Roles. Sacrifices."
She swallowed, her throat dry. "You want me to humiliate myself."
"No," he said, his lips curling in that infuriatingly calm way. "I want you to shine. And whether you rise or crumble under pressure—that's entirely up to you."
Zara's stomach churned. She could almost hear the cameras flashing already, the headlines screaming. She could see the sly smirks of the women in Adrian's circle, the men who would leer, the whispers that would cling to her like smoke.
And yet, beneath her dread, something stirred.
A spark of defiance.
Adrian wanted her to look like a fool. But what if she didn't? What if she wore his so-called weapon and turned it into her shield?
The thought lit fire in her veins.
Her lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "Fine," she said, lifting the gown. "I'll wear it. But don't blame me when I steal the spotlight."
For the first time, Adrian's smirk faltered—just slightly, just enough to be noticed. His eyes narrowed, curiosity flickering in their dark depths. "Careful, Zara. Pride is a dangerous thing."
"Then you should know," she replied, her voice low and sharp, "I'm dangerous too."
Two hours later, the gala was in full swing. Flashbulbs erupted along the red carpet as limousines rolled up one by one, releasing glittering figures in couture gowns and crisp tuxedos. The air hummed with wealth, power, and the thrill of being seen.
And then came Adrian Blackwood and Zara Hale.
Adrian stepped out first, tall and commanding, the press surging forward as if magnetized. But when Zara followed, silence fell for the briefest heartbeat before the cameras exploded in a frenzy.
Because Zara wasn't humiliated.
She was breathtaking.
The crimson gown clung to her like fire, sculpting her body into sharp elegance rather than vulgarity. The plunging neckline had been tempered with a delicate diamond chain draped across her collarbone, drawing the eye upward instead of down. The slit, daring and bold, revealed glimpses of her legs with every graceful step, but the way she carried herself—poised, proud, unflinching—made it seem less scandalous and more commanding.
Her hair was swept into a sleek updo, her makeup sharp and flawless, her lips painted the same venomous red as the gown. She looked less like prey and more like a queen walking into battle.
And everyone saw it.
The reporters shouted her name, their voices a chaotic chorus. The flash of cameras was relentless, capturing every angle. Zara held her head high, every step calculated, her arm slipping effortlessly into Adrian's.
And Adrian—Adrian was silent.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he glanced at her, and for the first time since their deal began, Zara thought she saw something flicker in his expression. Surprise. Admiration. Maybe even—though he would never admit it—pride.
They entered the ballroom together, all eyes following them. Conversations hushed, whispers swirled, and Zara felt the weight of every gaze pressing down on her. But instead of shrinking, she thrived under it.
This was her stage. And if Adrian thought he could humiliate her, he had underestimated her badly.
But triumph was never without a shadow.
Because across the ballroom, standing with a glass of champagne and a razor-edged smile, was a woman Zara recognized instantly.
Clara Winters.
Adrian's ex.
And the look in her eyes promised that tonight's battle had only just begun.