"You need to wear navy," Dante said for the third time, standing in the doorway of my closet with his arms crossed. "It's a corporate event. Conservative."
"And I'm saying burgundy is perfectly appropriate." I held the dress against my body, examining it in the mirror. It was elegant, with a discreet neckline and knee-length. "I'm not one of your employees, Dante."
It had been three days since the wedding. Three days of polite dinners, superficial conversations, and goodnight messages through closed doors. And now, our first public event as a couple.
A charity gala dinner where the biggest names in the business world would be in attendance. Including, Dante had casually mentioned that morning, several of Moretti Enterprises' most important investors.
Pressure. None.
"I'm not saying you're my employee," he retorted, stepping into the closet. "I'm saying these people are... complicated. They judge everything." The color of the dress may seem trivial, but to them it's a statement.
"And what statement does burgundy make?"
"That you're passionate. Impulsive." He picked up the navy dress and offered it. "Blue says sophisticated. Reliable. A suitable CEO's wife."
Something in me rebelled against those words. A suitable wife. As if there were a manual, unwritten rules on how to be the perfect human accessory.
"I'll wear burgundy," I said firmly, taking the dress from his hands. "If your investors judge me by the color of the dress, they're idiots."
Dante's eyes flashed—anger or admiration, I couldn't decipher. "You're stubborn."
"And you're controlling."
"I'm trying to protect you!"
"From what? From people with opinions about fabric?" I laughed humorlessly. "Dante, if we're going to make this work, you need to trust me to stand up for myself."
He was silent for a long moment, jaw clenched. Then, surprisingly, he sighed. "You're right." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I began to recognize as frustration. "Sorry. I'm... nervous. This dinner is important."
The admission caught me off guard. "Why?"
"Because for the first time in thirteen years, I'm going to show up with someone." His voice lowered. "They'll dissect you, Isabella. Every word, every gesture. Looking for weakness, scandal, something to use against me."
I understood then. It wasn't about control. It was about fear. Fear that I wasn't good enough in their eyes, and that it would reflect poorly on him.
"Hey." I touched his arm, making him look at me. "I can handle them. I grew up in corporate events. I know how to play the game."
"It's not the same. These are sharks, not civilized businesspeople." But something relaxed in his shoulders. "Just... please, stay close to me. Don't let anyone isolate you. They're best when they attack in groups."
The image was depressing. "Sounds like fun."
He smiled humorlessly. "It's a nightmare. But necessary." He checked his watch. "We have an hour. Wear the burgundy. You look beautiful in any color."
He left before I could answer, leaving me standing there with the dress in my hands and my heart beating faster than it should.
________________________________________
An hour later, I descended the main staircase where Dante was waiting in the foyer. He wore a black tuxedo—obviously tailored, obviously very expensive—and looked like something out of a GQ magazine.
When he saw me, he stopped fiddling with his cufflinks and simply... looked.
"You were right about the dress," he finally said, his voice husky. "You look devastating."
Heat rose to my cheeks. The burgundy dress really had been perfect—fitted in all the right places, elegant, but not too conservative. I'd worn my hair in a low bun and worn the pearls my grandmother left me.
"You don't look bad yourself," I replied, descending the last few steps.
He offered his arm. "Ready to meet the wolves?"
"I've always wanted to be Little Red Riding Hood."
His laugh was genuine, and I realized how much I loved that sound. Too rare, too precious.
The car—a black limousine, obviously. During the twenty-minute drive to the hotel where the event would be held, Dante gave me instructions.
"Marcus Tavares," he said, showing me a photo on his tablet. "My biggest investor. Sixty-two years old, three divorces, obsessed with money. He's going to test you. You won't take the bait."
"What kind of test?"
"He's going to make provocative comments. Try to get you to show emotion. He wants to see if you're 'stable' enough." Dante moved on to the next photo.
"Helena Monteiro. CEO of Monteiro Tech. She seems kind, but she's a snake. She'll ask personal questions disguised as friendly curiosity."
"Like what?"
"How do you and I know each other? How long have we been together? Have we ever discussed a prenuptial agreement?" He looked at me seriously. "Our story: we met two years ago at a charity party. I never forgot you. I ran into you again at the hotel bar. You were breaking up with Ricardo because you found out he was cheating on you. An instant, irresistible connection. We married quickly because when you know, you know."
"Convenient story."
"Consistent story," he corrected. "If our versions don't match, they'll know." He moved on to more photos. "André Costa, Silvio Duarte, Carmen Rocha... they're all important. They're all dangerous if underestimated."
My head was spinning with names, faces, power dynamics. "This is more complicated than I thought."
"Welcome to my world." He put away the tablet. "But Isabella, listen. If you feel uncomfortable at any point, squeeze my hand twice. That's our signal. I'll get you out of the situation."
"Two squeezes."
"Two squeezes." He took my hand, demonstrating. His fingers were warm, firm. "Like this. Promise you'll use it if you need it?"
"I promise."
The car stopped in front of the Grand Hyatt. Camera flashes were already waiting—paparazzi wanting to capture arrivals. Dante squeezed my hand again, but this time it wasn't a signal. It was encouragement.
"Showtime," he murmured.
The door opened. Dante stepped out first, then offered his hand to help me. The second my shoes touched the red carpet, the flashbulbs exploded.
"Dante! Isabella! Look here!" "Mrs. Moretti! How does it feel to be married?" "Dante, is it true you're honeymooning in Santorini?"
Dante pulled me close, his arm firmly around my waist. He smiled—practiced, perfect—and I waved to the cameras. Two minutes of photos that felt like an eternity, then we entered the hotel.
The ballroom was opulent—crystal chandeliers, gilded décor, tables covered with immaculate linens. About two hundred people were already there, all in expensive formal wear, all probably worth more than small nations.
"Breathe," Dante whispered in my ear. "You can do it."
We barely took three steps before we were intercepted.
"Moretti!" A large man, silver hair, and a shark-like smile approached. Marcus Tavares, I recognized from the photos. "Finally! I thought I'd never see you married."
"Marcus." Dante shook his hand, cordial but cautious. "Let me introduce my wife. Isabella, this is Marcus Tavares."
"Mrs. Moretti." Marcus took my hand and kissed it—an old-fashioned gesture that made me want to clean my skin afterward. "Beautiful." Dante is a lucky man.
"I'm the lucky one," I replied softly. "It's not every day you find someone who truly understands you."
"Ah, yes, the famous love at first sight." There was skepticism in his tone. "It must have been something very special to make you leave your fiancé and marry a man you barely knew."
Here it was. The first test.
"It wasn't at first sight," I corrected gently, using the exact story Dante had given me. "We met two years ago. But I was engaged, so nothing happened. When fate brought us together again, and I was free... well, it would be foolish to ignore it."
"And your ex-fiancé? Ricardo Almeida, right? I heard he's devastated."
Dante tensed beside me, but I kept my smile.
"Ricardo will be fine." My voice remained calm. "I'm sure he and Melissa—his current girlfriend—will be very happy together."
A subtle touch, reminding everyone that Ricardo cheated on me first. Marcus blinked, recalibrating.
"Smart," he said finally, something like respect seeping into his tone. "Dante, you chose well this time."
Before Dante could respond, an elegant, dark-haired woman joined us. Helena Monteiro.
"Marcus, don't monopolize the newlyweds!" She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Isabella, dear, can I steal you for a moment? There are some people dying to meet you."
I glanced at Dante. He hesitated, clearly not wanting to let me go, but nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Sure," I agreed, releasing Dante's arm. "I'll be right back."
Helena guided me to a group of women near the bar—all dressed in designer dresses, all sizing me up like scientists studying an interesting specimen.
"Girls, this is Isabella Moretti! The woman who finally captured our Dante." Helena made the introductions quickly—names I instantly forgot, faces blurring together. "So, dear, tell us everything! How did you two really meet?"
Here it came.
I repeated the story, smiling, keeping my tone light. They listened with predatory attention.
"And the scandal?" one of them asked—platinum blonde with plump lips. "The hotel photos were so... explicit."
"They were taken out of context." I kept my voice steady. "Dante was a gentleman. Always has been."
"Hmm!" Helena tilted her head. "You know he has a reputation, don't you? Of dating a lot of women. Never staying with one for long."
"Until he meets the right person." I held her gaze. "Sometimes it takes time to find where you belong."
"And you belong with him?" Another question, this time from a redhead. "An art gallery owner with a tech billionaire? It seems... there's a big difference."
There it was. The insinuation that I wasn't good enough.
"I don't think love follows the logic of resume compatibility." I smiled, but there was steel in my voice now. "And as for the disparity, my family is also in the business world. I understand the pressures, expectations, and sacrifices that come with it. Maybe that's why we work."
"Interesting." Helena studied me. "You're sharper than I thought. Dante tends to go for more... decorative women."
Okay. Enough.
"With all due respect, Helena." My voice lowered but remained polite. "I don't know Dante's exes, and I don't need to. What I know is that he chose me. And he will continue to choose me every day." So if the concern is whether I'll "last"... well, you'll just have to wait and see.
Silence. The women looked at me in shock. Then Helena laughed—genuinely.
"Okay. I like you." She raised her glass. "Welcome to the circle, Isabella. You're going to need that backbone here."
The tension broke. The other women began asking more genuine questions—about the wedding, the honeymoon we haven't planned yet, whether we wanted children.
But I could feel eyes on me. I turned and found Dante across the room, talking to a group of men in suits, but looking directly at me. When our eyes met, he smiled—small, private, proud.
I nodded discreetly. He relaxed visibly.
Dinner was announced, and we found our seats—head table, of course. Dante immediately intertwined his fingers with mine on the table.
"You were amazing," he whispered. "Helena never approves of anyone."
"She tested." I passed. Simple.
"Nothing about you is simple, Isabella Torres Moretti." There was admiration in his green eyes.
Dinner progressed—five elaborate courses, expensive wines, conversations ranging from business to politics. Dante remained attentive, always including me, protecting me when conversations got too tense.
It was during dessert that everything fell apart.
Ricardo appeared at our table.
My ex-fiancé was impeccably dressed in a tuxedo, Melissa on his arm like an expensive accessory. But his eyes—fixated on me with something between hatred and desire—were dangerous.
"Dante. Isabella." His voice dripped with venom disguised as courtesy. "What a coincidence to find you here."
"Ricardo." Dante didn't stand, but there was warning in his tone. "I didn't know you had an invitation."
"We're André Costa's guests. Old family friends." Ricardo smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Isabella, you look beautiful. Marriage suits you. Even if it's with the wrong man." Dante stood up so quickly his chair nearly toppled over.
"Watch your mouth."
"Or what?" Ricardo took a defiant step closer. "Are you going to buy me like she did?"
The entire table fell silent. Everyone watched the drama unfold.
My hand found Dante's, holding tightly. Two squeezes. Our signal.
But Dante was beyond signals.
"Out. Now." His voice was low, dangerous. "Before I make you leave."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise."
Security was already approaching, alerted by the commotion. But before they reached me, I did something impulsive.
I stood up, walked over to Ricardo, and faced him directly.
"You cheated on me." My voice was calm, but it carried. Nearby tables turned to listen. "With my best friend. The night before we discussed final wedding arrangements. So no, Ricardo, you have no right to judge my choices. You lost that right when you chose Melissa over me."
I turned to Melissa, who had paled.
"And you. I hope it's worth it. Because now you have a man who cheats. And if he cheated on me, he'll cheat on you."
Then, with as much dignity as I could muster, I returned to Dante and took his hand.
"Can we go home now?" I asked softly.
" Something flashed in his eyes—admiration, desire, pride—all mixed together.
"Yes." He laced his fingers through mine. "Let's go home."
We walked out of the ballroom hand in hand, leaving whispers and shocked looks in our wake.
In the car, Dante simply pulled me into his arms.
"You were perfect," he murmured into my hair. "Absolutely perfect."
And as we drove back home—our home—I realized something frightening.
I wasn't pretending for the cameras anymore.
I was defending my marriage.
Defending him.
And I had no idea when that had happened.