The next day got worse. A quiet call from a board ally shattered what little ground she thought she had gained.
"Elena," the older man's voice cracked over the phone, "you need to know before this goes public. Your father... he sold off part of his holdings. Thirty percent of Rossi Textiles. To Moretti. Papers were signed weeks before the heart attack."
Elena went cold. "That is impossible. He would never-"
"I have seen the documents myself. I'm sorry. He must have thought it was the only way to keep things afloat."
Her throat closed up. Her father?, Dante?, but why....?.
She clung to the phone as if it could anchor her. Her father had been a man of stubborn principle. He had told her stories of building factories from nothing. He had begged her, once, to keep the company honest even when the world demanded otherwise. The thought that he had signed anything away, especially to Dante Moretti, felt like betrayal.
After hanging up, she collapsed into her chair and pressed her hand to her mouth. Grief and fury battled in her chest until fury won.
So that's your play, she thought, picturing Moretti's quiet smile. You think this breaks me. Wrong Dante. It just makes me meaner.
---
Two nights later, Milan's grandest ballroom sparkled under a thousand chandeliers for the annual Textile Industry Gala. A place where deals found breath and reputations were minted or ruined.
Elena had resisted coming. She had no intention of playing the society game. But a protest of absence would have read like weakness; she needed to be seen. If Rossi was to survive, the world had to know the heiress was not hiding.
She entered wearing a scarlet silk that commanded attention. The dress hugged her in the right places and kept armor where she wanted it, high neckline, long sleeves, yet the color declared a refusal to fade. every head turning as her heels clicked across marble again and again.
Dante stood at the podium, working the crowd like he owned it. His speech flowed smooth and confident, loaded with subtle digs about innovation, efficiency, and how consolidation was inevitable in their industry.
In times of change, " Dante said," his voice carrying effortlessly. Companies that cling to the past risk drowning. Progress needs strong hands to guide it. We must embrace strength, stability, and a real future, where there is weakness, there is opportunity.
His eyes cut through the room and found hers, he held her with an appraisal, not quite a challenge, more like an assessment of an opponent before a match began.
Applause thundered. Cameras flashed.
Elena's blood boiled. He had the audacity to call his bids "opportunity" while his name was inked on papers that might have already changed her fate. She could sit there quietly. Or she could gut him right here.
She stood. Her voice cut through the applause like a blade: "A future built on devouring the weak, Moretti? How noble."
The room gasped, the collective breath of the room sucking in astonishment. Every eye swung to her.
Dante turned, surprise flickering across his face before he smoothed it with a smile that made women follow him and men resent him. "Elena Rossi. What a pleasure."
She walked to the stage like she owned it. You talk about strength. "she said," holding his gaze until she felt the tighter lines at his eyes. My father built Rossi Textiles with hands stained in dye and sweat, not with opportunistic purchase orders. Our legacy is not for sale. Not now, not ever. And if you think thirty percent makes you king of my boardroom, you don't know me at all."
The crowd erupted, half in admiration, half gasping. Reporters scribbled frantically while flashes burst like fireworks. Elena felt a fragment of triumph and a pulse of fear. She had made a spectacle of herself.
Dante's jaw tightened, his charm cracking at the edges. He did not strike back with the same public venom. Instead he accused her with his calm and measured eyes.
Elena stepped closer, dropping her voice so only he could hear. "Consider that my final answer."
---
Later, on the balcony where city lights sprawled beneath them, Dante finally cornered her. His smile edged with fury, dark eyes burning.
"Enjoyed your little performance?" he asked, though there was no mockery in the question.
She met his stare head-on. "Every bit." she replied.
His voice dropped to a growl. "You want to keep Rossi Textiles? Fine. Beat me. One year. Outbid me, outsmart me, outrun me and the company stays yours forever. Fail, and you sign it over."
The words landed and blurred. Her hands clenched into fists, jaw tight. She felt the weight of the moment, She couldn't afford this war. But walking away wasn't an option either.
She lifted her chin. "Then consider this a war declared." she said, simpler than the furious plans that raced behind her eyes.
That night she layed awake, It still rang in her ears, One year. Dante Moretti had thrown down his gauntlet, and Elena Rossi had stubbornly accepted it.
As she stared out of her office window the next morning, Milan glittered beneath her like a battlefield. Every rooftop, every flashing billboard, every weaving car seemed part of a world that suddenly wanted her to fail.
Her reflection in the glass looked harder than she felt. Jaw tight, dark hair coiled in a severe knot, crimson lips pressed into a line. She refused to let anyone, least of all Dante, see the cracks.
The intercom buzzed. Her assistant's voice wavered nervously: "Signora Rossi... Signor Moretti is here to see you."
Of course he was. Of course he would come to ensure his challenge would be accepted in form
"Send him in," Elena said, words cool, she stepped away from the window, spine straightening, She smoothed the front of her jacket as if armor could be rearranged.
The door opened, and Dante strode in like he owned the building already. Tailored charcoal suit, eyes glinting with that unnerving mixture of amusement and command. He looked infuriatingly composed for a man who had been publicly humiliated the night before.
"Elena." His tone was casual, as though they had not declared war over champagne flutes. "You have had your fun on the stage. Now, let's talk seriously."
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "I don't recall inviting you into my office."
He ignored the jab, settling into the chair opposite her desk as if it belonged to him. "You should thank me, actually."
Her laugh was sharp. "For what? For trying to bulldoze me in front of half the city?"
"For giving you a chance," he replied smoothly. "One year, Elena. I could have crushed Rossi overnight. Instead I offered time. A gift, if you are wise enough to see it." His eyes held a stubborn, almost paternal certainty.
She leaned forward, palms pressed to the polished wood of her desk. "I don't need your charity, and I don't play by your rules."
He sat a beat longer, his expression hardened, the warm confidence chilling. He said, "Then you had better be ready. because I have already started."
She swallowed, mouth dry. "Then we fight."
As he rose to leave, Dante paused at the doorway and turned. "Oh, and Elena?"
"Yes?"
He smiled, not cruel now but absolutely certain. "Don't get sentimental about your father. Sentiment doesn't save companies."
The door shut behind him and somewhere already, it seemed the world shifted.