The dining room was spacious, adorned with crystal chandeliers and mirrors that multiplied the image of Lara in red.
She felt completely out of place. Not just because she was surrounded by men who knew the filth behind her family name, but because every look cast in her direction carried intent: curiosity, judgment… and desire.
Vicenzo walked beside her with the posture of a general. Commanding. In control of the room. In control of her.
"Sit to my left."
He pulled out the chair without even looking at her, and Lara obeyed silently, her hands cold in her lap.
Across the table, four men laughed loudly, wine glasses already raised. She recognized two of them from newspaper photos: Alberto Silvestri, CEO of the rival holding that had swallowed up her father's former company, and Marco del Torri, the lawyer responsible for freezing the Fernandes family's assets.
The third man, younger, perhaps an heir, kept his eyes locked on her with shameless interest.
"So, this is her?" Marco murmured, smiling wickedly. "The girl from the contract."
Lara's blood boiled. She tried to keep her chin up, but her stomach turned.
Vicenzo didn't even blink.
"She's more than that. She's an investment already paying off."
Lara clenched her fists beneath the table. The humiliation burned her skin like acid. But he didn't stop there.
"She knows how to listen. How to obey. And soon… she'll know how to entertain."
Laughter erupted around the table. The young heir licked his lips, and Marco raised his glass toward her.
"Your father must be so proud."
Lara didn't stand. Didn't scream. Didn't cry. She simply closed her eyes for a second and smiled. A small, pained, but defiant smile.
When she opened them again, she looked straight at Vicenzo.
"I'm paying in rage too. And you love it."
Silence fell around the table instantly. Vicenzo held her gaze for several long seconds. Then, unhurriedly, he lifted his glass and took a sip.
"And you're learning," he murmured. "Much faster than I expected."
******
The dinner went on like a minefield. Lara said little. Observed much. Every gesture, every double-edged comment, every exchange of glances.
Gradually, she realized this wasn't just about humiliation.
It was about control.
They wanted to see her break.
But she wouldn't.
When the dinner ended, Vicenzo touched her back with warm fingers, guiding her to the hotel's private elevator. She kept her chin high, even as her eyes welled with tears.
Inside the elevator, he finally broke the silence:
"You surprised me."
"For not crying?"
"For not running."
She looked at him, exhausted.
"Can I still?"
"Of course. Just give the bail money back. And let your father rot."
He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he smiled—but without warmth.
"You still don't understand, Lara. This isn't punishment. It's transformation."
"Into what?"
"Into the woman you should've been all along."
The door opened on the top floor. He led her to the presidential suite. Massive. Luxurious. Intimidating.
"Tomorrow, we have another event. And you'll wear green. Emerald."
She hesitated.
"Do you choose everything now?"
"Everything," he confirmed. "Even when you breathe... and when you moan."
Lara turned her face away, but her heart pounded harder. She hated this man.
And worse, she hated the effect he had on her.
*****
The presidential suite was far too big for just two people. Lara stood in the middle of the room, feeling the weight of the silence, and Vicenzo's gaze on her back.
"Take off the dress."
The command came low, leaving no room for negotiation. Lara turned slowly, her fingers trembling slightly as they reached for the zipper.
"Here? Now?"
He didn't answer. Just crossed his arms and waited.
The red dress slid down her body, the silk pooling at her feet. Lara stood there in just her lingerie, the cold air from the AC brushing her skin.
Vicenzo watched her like a collector examining a rare piece.
"You're beautiful. But beauty isn't enough."
He stepped closer, removed his watch, and placed it on the table with a deliberate click.
"From now on, you're no longer Lara Fernandes, daughter of the man I hate. You're mine."
She swallowed hard.
"And what does that mean?"
"It means you're going to learn to be irresistible. To be dangerous." He touched her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "To be everything your father could never control."
Lara felt a chill, not from fear, but from challenge.
"And if I don't want to?"
Vicenzo smiled.
"You already signed the contract, mia cara. Now you just follow the rules."
Lara held her breath, chin lifted high even under Vicenzo's unbearably analytical gaze.
The lingerie she wore was simple—no seductive lace, no scandalous transparency. But in that wide, luxurious room, she felt as exposed as if she were completely naked.
He circled her body as if measuring her. His silence was more cruel than any words, heavy, calculated, deliberate. She didn't dare step back. If there was something he wanted to strip from her, he would have to fight harder than he expected.
"You want to break my pride?" she asked, eyes locked on his.
"No," Vicenzo replied, now standing right behind her, his voice warm against her ear. "I want to turn it into a weapon."
His hand slid slowly along her waist, almost respectfully, like he was showing her he could touch her, but didn't need to. And that was even more disorienting.
"You think I want you on your knees, submissive?"
He leaned in, his lips grazing her nape. Lara shivered.
"Wrong. I want you standing. Dangerous. Irresistible. I want every man who hates me to desire you, and know they can't have you. Because you belong to me."
She turned abruptly, her face just inches from his.
"This is about revenge. Not about me."
Vicenzo didn't deny it.
"You were the price. But now… you're the prize."
The words hit like a slap. But before she could respond, he stepped away, walking over to a leather armchair and sitting like it was all part of a well-rehearsed performance.
"Get dressed. Tomorrow, you start training with my image consultant."
"Training?"
"Etiquette. Posture. Charm. You'll be shaped. And in the end, no one will dare ignore your power."
Lara picked up the dress from the floor without breaking eye contact.
"And you? Will you be shaping me too?"
His smile was slow.
"I just light the match. The fire is yours."
She dressed with steady movements, feeling even more stripped on the inside. But it wasn't fear she felt.
It was anger.
It was wounded pride.
It was the seed of defiance.
He turned to the window, where the city sparkled like a sea of false stars.
"Tomorrow, wear green. Hair down. I want them to remember you."
Lara took a deep breath.
"Who?"
He glanced back at her over his shoulder.
"Everyone."