The First Rule

The steam from the hot water had fogged the bathroom mirror, blurring the reflection of a woman Valeria no longer recognized. She had scrubbed her skin with the sponge until it was raw and red, as if trying to wash away the feeling of subjugation that signing the contract had left behind.

She wrapped herself in a thick, soft white towel and took a deep breath. It's only one year, she repeated to herself like a mantra. Twelve months. Three hundred and sixty-five days. I can survive this.

She opened the bathroom door, expecting to find the room empty just as she had left it.

She was wrong.

Dante was there.

He was sitting indolently in the grey designer armchair in the corner, one leg crossed over the other, as if he were the absolute owner of the very air she breathed. And in this space, he was.

"You're late," he said, checking an upscale wristwatch.

Valeria clutched the towel tightly around herself, instantly feeling vulnerable. The knot in her chest tightened.

"I was... taking a shower. What are you doing in my room? Greta said this was my space..."

"This is my home, Valeria," he interrupted in a calm voice, slowly standing up. "There is no 'your space.' There are rooms I allow you to occupy on a temporary basis. That is the difference."

He walked toward the bed, where a heavy-duty black trash bag lay. Valeria frowned, confused, until she recognized the white lapel peeking through the opening.

It was her Chanel suit.

"That's mine!" she gasped, taking a step forward before remembering the precariousness of her attire.

Dante picked up the bag with one hand and dropped it to the floor. The thud was heavy and categorical.

"It was yours," he corrected. "I warned you at the office. I hate white. It projects fragility, and fragility is of no use to me. I need efficiency. I need high society to understand that you are in my service, not that you are still Rodrigo de la Vega's protected heiress."

He gestured toward the bed with a somber motion.

Laid out on the grey duvet with mathematical symmetry was the outfit selected for the night. It was no conventional office ensemble. On the bedspread lay a high-waisted black leather pencil skirt designed to hug the body and shorten her stride, paired with a fluid, deep-draped wine-red silk blouse. To the side, a pair of black patent leather pumps with red soles completed the look.

"Your attire for tonight," Dante announced, gauging her reaction.

Valeria studied the clothes and then looked back at him, her jaw tightening.

"I'm not wearing that. It's an unnecessary provocation."

"A provocation?" Dante arched an eyebrow. "It is the standard I demand from those who accompany me."

He stepped closer to her, closing the distance until the warmth of his presence became palpable. Valeria backed up two steps until her spine hit the cold glass of the bay window. Dante planted a hand against the glass, blocking her path.

"Listen to me carefully, Valeria. First rule: you do not set the conditions. I decide your commitments, I decide your schedule, and I decide your presentation. That outfit is faultless and expensive. When you enter a dining room or a boardroom by my side, no one will doubt who you answer to."

Valeria held his gaze, remaining firm despite the tremor running through her limbs from a mix of anger and caution. She could feel Dante's eyes fixed on the line of her throat, right where the towel was secured.

"You have five minutes to get dressed," he said, abruptly pulling back. "If you are not ready in the dining room by then, I will come in and force you to dress. And I assure you, I have no patience for delays."

Dante turned and left the room, leaving the door ajar.

Valeria stood motionless for a second, listening to her racing pulse. She looked at the bag on the floor containing the remnants of her previous life, then at the clothes on the bed.

With cold fingers, she let the towel fall and began to dress.

The silk felt soft yet alien against her skin. The leather skirt pulled firmly around her waist and hips, forcing an upright, inflexible posture upon her. When she slipped into the heels, her elevation shifted, compelling her to steady her balance on the polished hardwood floor.

She looked at herself in the dressing room mirror.

The woman in the reflection looked distant, imposing, and sophisticated—but she was a far cry from the Valeria who had woken up that morning at the De la Vega mansion.

Taking a deep breath to hold back the tension, she stepped out into the hallway.

Dante was waiting near the entrance to the main dining room, reviewing documents on his phone. Hearing the steady click of heels against the floor, he looked up.

He stopped.

For a brief instant, Dante's expression lost its corporate chill. His grey eyes traveled over the outfit from the shoes to the cut of the blouse, pausing for a second at the line of her shoulders. The silence grew heavy between them.

"Turn around," he instructed drily.

Valeria clenched her fists, but turned with measured grace. The skirt held her movements in sharp, elegant alignment.

"Acceptable," Dante ruled, regaining control of his face as he put the device away. "You fit the profile."

He walked up to her and stopped behind her. Valeria felt the closeness of his shadow and held her breath. He reached out and precisely adjusted the collar of her blouse, aligning the fabric with analytical coolness.

"It is set," he murmured close to her ear. "Now, let's go. Dinner is served, and you have to learn your place at this table."

Dante moved past her toward the formal dining room, his shoulder brushing hers ever so slightly.

Valeria brought a hand to her throat, feeling her rapid pulse beneath her skin. She knew that every gesture of Dante's was calculated to unbalance her, but as she walked into the dining room behind him, she understood something crucial: if he wanted to make this a power game, she would have to learn how to play without letting him break her.