The gala was held in a grand ballroom soaked in gold and champagne.
It was everything Aaria hated—glittering eyes, fake smiles, and a thousand little lies painted across designer suits. She didn't belong here, and she knew it. But Rafael had personally instructed her to attend.
"You'll be representing the executive office," his assistant had said.
What the assistant didn't say—but what Aaria understood—was that Rafael wanted her there. On display. Watched.
She wore a simple black dress. Elegant, unassuming. But the way men stared made her skin crawl.
Especially one man.
Mr. Levkin—an overseas investor with too much money and even less morality.
He cornered her by the back terrace, drink in hand, his breath laced with vodka and violation.
"You look like something expensive I could break slowly," he slurred, fingers grazing her shoulder.
She stepped back immediately. "Excuse me?"
He smiled with the confidence of a man who'd never been told no.
"You interns think you're untouchable, hmm? But you're in his company now. You know what that means, don't you?"
Her stomach twisted.
"I said back off," she snapped, louder this time.
But no one heard. The music swelled. Laughter echoed.
He grabbed her wrist.
And then—he was gone.
Thrown.
Hard.
He hit the stone terrace wall with a grunt, sliding down in stunned silence.
The music hadn't even stopped.
Rafael stood over him, expression like ice under fire.
He didn't yell. He didn't move fast. He didn't need to.
His presence screamed danger.
Rafael reached down, grabbed Levkin by the collar, and said something low in his ear—words Aaria would never hear. But whatever it was turned the man pale as death. He stumbled away seconds later, disappearing into the crowd.
Aaria just stood there, shaking, caught between fury and relief.
"You followed me," she said.
"No," Rafael replied. "I watched you."
"Like a possession?"
"No. Like something mine."
His voice dropped into a near-growl. "And I don't share what's mine."
Aaria stepped back, but he stepped forward, backing her against the stone rail.
"You don't get to decide that," she snapped.
"I don't ask," he whispered.
Then he leaned in—his hand grazing the back of her neck, his lips brushing just beside her ear.
"Everything in this world takes something from you, Aaria. But I'll give you something no one else will."
"What?" she hissed.
His answer was low and feral:
"Control. Through surrender."
Her breath hitched.
She didn't trust him.
She didn't trust herself more.
But in that moment—trapped between the cold marble behind her and the heat of him in front—she realized something terrifying:
She was no longer afraid of Rafael Viera.
She was afraid of how much she wanted to belong to him.