Chapter 57
FIFTY-SEVEN
VALENTINA FERRARA
I took a deep breath, staring at my reflection in the large mirror of the presidential suite of the most luxurious hotel in S?o Paulo—the very one hosting the foundation’s event that night.
My life had twisted and turned so many times over the past decade that it would be strange if I weren’t exhausted.
My heart hammered violently against my chest, fast and nervous. My hands trembled slightly, and I had to brace them against the marble counter to keep my anxiety from showing.
The dress was red—long and fitted—the soft fabric hugging my body as if it had been made just for me.
The neckline was delicate, revealing just enough to entice without exposing too much. My hair was swept up in an elegant style that highlighted my neck and bare shoulders. My makeup was flawless, carefully concealing the insecurity churning inside me.
I couldn’t deny that I liked what I saw in the mirror—but the feeling was quickly replaced by the bitter reminder of why I needed to look impressive that night.
Eloá had put my family in danger once again, and I was about to walk into a room filled with powerful strangers to protect it the only way I could.
Thinking about Clara sent a sharp pang through my chest. It was the first time I’d been away from my daughter since she was born, and it hurt more than I expected. Knowing I was doing this for her should have been enough to steady me—but the ache of missing her was already setting in.
I swallowed hard and looked away from the mirror.
A light knock at the door caught my attention.
“Valentina? Are you ready?” Enrico’s deep voice came through, calm and controlled.
I took one last breath, bracing myself for him—and for all the chaos that came with him—and opened the door.
He stood there already dressed in an elegant black tuxedo, tailored perfectly to his broad, imposing frame.
My heart stuttered.
My eyes betrayed me immediately, sliding over him—the sharp line of his jaw, his clean-shaven face, his dark hair slicked back with meticulous precision. A warm knot formed in my throat as I took him in, breaking my own rule about not staring.
Enrico wasn’t following any rules either.
His dark eyes roamed over me with slow, deliberate intensity, lingering in a way that felt almost physical, as if his gaze alone were touching me. Heat pooled low in my stomach. My breath turned shallow, uneven.
We stood there far longer than five seconds, frozen, lost in each other—blatantly violating the agreement we’d made less than a day earlier.
Finally, he inhaled deeply, regaining control before I did, and offered a quiet, appreciative smile.
“You look… stunning,” he said softly, still unable to fully look away.
I swallowed, forcing myself out of the trance.
“Thank you,” I replied weakly, my face warming. “You look… great too.”
He nodded and extended his arm in a practiced gesture—so natural it almost felt spontaneous.
I hesitated briefly before taking it.
The contact was formal, minimal—and yet it sent a rush of sensation through me that I had no business feeling.
Enrico seemed perfectly at ease, but I noticed the way his muscles tightened when his hand slid carefully to the small of my back, guiding me toward the door.
His touch lingered a second longer than necessary—warm, firm, almost possessive.
He leaned closer, speaking softly, as if he’d read my thoughts.
“Remember—we’re a happy couple. Smiles. Hands together. We need to convince everyone tonight.”
I nodded, ignoring the way my heart reacted every time he touched me, every time he looked at me, every time I caught the scent of the cologne I’d explicitly banned.
As we walked down the hotel corridor toward the main hall, I felt torn between gratitude for not having to face this alone—and irritation at myself for enjoying that forbidden sense of connection far too much.
Yes, we were united tonight to protect Clara.
But we were also a couple pretending to be happy—dangerously close to confusing performance with reality.
When we reached the entrance to the ballroom, the scale of the event hit me immediately.
The hall was massive, adorned with grand chandeliers, lush floral arrangements, and soft, elegant lighting. Journalists and photographers waited near the entrance, documenting the arrival of important guests. My heart raced again as curious, appraising eyes turned toward us.
I felt Enrico’s hand tighten gently around mine—a reassuring gesture that warmed something deep inside me, despite my efforts to deny it. He appeared completely at ease, posture confident as he smiled calmly for the cameras and guided me forward.
We walked the red carpet, and I was acutely aware of the steady, protective pressure of his hand against my back. He kept the contact subtle but constant as he greeted people who recognized him.
No matter how many times I reminded myself this was just a performance, my body reacted instinctively—shivering beneath the heat of his touch.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, his lips nearly brushing my ear.
“I’m trying,” I murmured back, keeping a polite, fake smile in place. “I hate this. I hate that Eloá has this kind of power over us.”
He tightened his grip around my waist, pulling me slightly closer.
“She won’t win, Valentina. I won’t let anything happen to you or Clara.”
His voice was firm, resolute—and I hated how calming it was.
For the first time in years, I didn’t feel completely alone.
Having Enrico beside me, sharing the weight of this responsibility, was a bittersweet comfort.
We were led to a reserved table at the center of the ballroom—strategically placed, impossible to miss. Enrico pulled out my chair, his hand light at my waist as I sat. I kept my smile fixed, aware of dozens of eyes on us.
“You look beautiful together!” an elegantly dressed woman exclaimed as she stopped at our table. “It’s so wonderful to see such a united, loving couple these days.”
Enrico smiled and answered before I could even think.
“That’s very kind of you. I’m a very lucky man.”
I swallowed, holding my smile as his words stirred chaos in my chest.
When the woman walked away, Enrico leaned in slightly.
“I think we’re doing well, don’t you?”
I nodded, unable to trust my voice.
“Enrico Ferrara—what a pleasant surprise!” a voice dripping with malice said behind us.
Antonio Dias, a journalist notorious for sensationalism, stopped at our table. His gaze swept over me shamelessly before turning to Enrico.
“And with your wife. I thought you weren’t exactly the social event type.”
Enrico straightened instantly, his expression sharpening—protective, dangerous.
“We’re exactly where we belong,” he replied coolly. “I hope you’re prepared to write something less sensational this time.”
Antonio laughed, unimpressed.
“I’m just curious how long you’ll be able to keep up this image of marital bliss. You’re both very convincing actors.”
I felt Enrico tense beside me.
“Don’t mistake courtesy for weakness,” he said quietly. “My marriage isn’t entertainment.”
Antonio raised his hands in mock surrender, his smile sharp as he walked away.
“You Ferraras are always so dramatic…”
Enrico stayed silent, breathing deeply to rein in his anger.
After a moment’s hesitation, I placed my hand over his on the table, intertwining our fingers—a gesture of mutual support.
“Ignore him,” I murmured, ignoring how fast my heart raced at the contact.
He looked at me, his gaze softening instantly—the icy blue of his eyes melting the second they locked onto mine, once again violating our no-staring rule.
I was trapped in that intensity, unable to look away.
“If you keep looking at me like that, Valentina…” he whispered, voice rough with tension, “…all your damn rules are going straight to hell.”
I widened my eyes slightly and pulled my hand away, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“Better not,” I whispered, turning my gaze aside.
But when I finally dared to look at him again, it was painfully clear—we were skating dangerously close to crossing every line we’d drawn.
And the night was only beginning.
As I struggled to steady my racing heart, the soft music in the ballroom faded, replaced by the master of ceremonies’ voice over the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention for a moment! It’s time for one of the most anticipated traditions of the Caravaggio Foundation’s gala—our opening dance!”
My body froze.
“And tonight,” he continued cheerfully, “we’d like to invite a couple we’re sure you’ll be delighted to see on the dance floor. Enrico Ferrara and his beautiful wife, Valentina Ferrara—would you honor us by opening the dance?”
My heart pounded so loudly I was sure everyone could hear it.
I looked at Enrico, who was already standing, composed, extending his hand toward me.
“We have to,” he said quietly—firm, meaningful—as his fingers wrapped around mine again.
I inhaled deeply, gathering my courage.
He led me to the center of the dance floor with effortless confidence, as if this were the most natural thing in the world for us.
All eyes were on us. I forced myself to appear calm as my pulse raced.
Gently, Enrico placed a hand at my waist, pulling me closer. My hand rested on his broad shoulder. I swallowed, fighting the dangerous urge to melt into him.
“Relax, Valentina,” he whispered as the music began. “Pretend I’m someone you can tolerate for a few minutes.”
I looked up at him, trying—and failing—to keep my expression neutral.
“That’s harder than you think,” I murmured dryly, surprising myself with the honesty in my voice.
He smiled faintly and drew me closer. His lips brushed near my ear as we turned slowly, our bodies dangerously close.
“If it helps,” he murmured, “we’ve only just started—and dancing with you already feels like a special kind of torture. Because all I can think about is that when the music ends, I’ll have to stop touching you.”
A shiver tore down my spine.
We moved in perfect sync, following the slow, seductive rhythm, as if we’d danced together a hundred times before.
For a moment, I forgot where we were—and why—giving in to his touch, his scent, the way he guided me so naturally.
“If you keep looking at me like that,” I whispered, trying to regain control, “everyone’s going to think I’m in love with you.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“And you?” he countered immediately. “What do I have to do to convince you that I love you? Because that’s the only thing that matters to me.”
“You just broke one of our rules,” I said, my heart climbing into my throat.
The music slowed even more. My body drifted closer to his, my chest brushing his. His breath hitched. His hand tightened at my waist, burning through the fabric.
“God… I want to kiss you so badly right now,” he murmured, voice thick with desire and frustration. “You’re beautiful—too beautiful for this to be fake.”
My heart exploded.
I should have pulled away. I should have reminded him of the rules.
Instead, I squeezed his hand tighter.
“Don’t do this, Enrico,” I whispered. “Not here. Not with everyone watching. You still have that power over me—and I hate it.”
“You hate it… but you want it.”
His lips hovered millimeters from mine, his breath mingling with mine.
My mind was chaos—desire, anger, regret—until the music ended abruptly and applause erupted around us.
I stepped back with effort, forcing a smile as we bowed to the crowd.
We returned to our table, my heart still racing, my body trembling.
Enrico and I weren’t just pretending.
We were two ticking time bombs.
And explosions like that rarely left survivors.