Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
ENRICO FERRARA
The studio lights were too bright. Too hot. Like they were designed to make you sweat truth out of your skin.
I’d sat through hundreds of interviews over the years without a flicker of discomfort. Cameras didn’t intimidate me. Questions didn’t corner me.
This did.
My posture was perfect, my suit flawless, my expression carved into something calm and executive—but inside, every muscle in my body was coiled tight. My jaw ached from holding the same neutral mask.
I glanced at my watch again.
I wanted it to be over.
The last few weeks had been a slow-motion collapse. Every strategy my team rolled out—statements, “community outreach,” polished press releases—had failed. Not just failed. Backfired.
Every attempt to control the narrative only reinforced the public’s favorite storyline:
Enrico Ferrara is punishing a small town because a woman rejected him. Dreamland is revenge.
Two minutes to go, the production assistant said, smiling like we weren’t about to step into a public execution.
“We’re live in two minutes, Mr. Ferrara.”
I nodded once and adjusted my cuff—an unnecessary gesture meant to occupy my hands.
I knew the script. I’d rehearsed the answers until they tasted like cardboard. Calm. Professional. Visionary. Community-focused. No personal conflict. No scandal.
But the unease didn’t leave.
Because what was at stake wasn’t just my name.
It was Dreamland. Ferrara Corp. The board. And the international capital that didn’t forgive instability.
“Live in three… two…”
The anchor across from me smiled into the camera.
“Good evening. Tonight we’re joined by Enrico Ferrara, CEO of Ferrara Corp and the man behind the Dreamland project—now at the center of a growing controversy. Mr. Ferrara, thank you for being here.”
“Thank you for having me,” I replied, voice steady, expression neutral.
The anchor leaned forward slightly, shifting into that practiced tone—polite, but predatory.
“Mr. Ferrara, your company has promised jobs and investment for the region. But the public conversation has moved away from the project and toward your private life.” His eyes didn’t blink.
“Is it true you have a personal history with the community leader opposing Dreamland—Valentina Muniz—and that you share a child?”
The question landed clean.
No softening. No room to dodge.
I took a controlled breath.
“I understand there’s been confusion,” I said, calm. “But there is no personal conflict between myself and Ms. Muniz. Dreamland is a professional initiative. It will generate employment, stimulate the local economy, and create sustainable opportunities for the region.”
The anchor’s eyebrow lifted, unimpressed.
“Then why is your name showing up in court alongside hers?” he asked. “Why was there a sealed hearing? And why are there reports—multiple reports—of a custody dispute?”
For a fraction of a second, my jaw tightened on reflex.
I corrected it immediately.
“Family matters involving my daughter are being handled privately, as they should be,” I said. “They are not tied to Dreamland.”
He tilted his head.
“But you understand how that sounds,” he pressed. “A CEO brings a billion-dollar project into a town where the main opposition leader is a woman he almost married—and the mother of his daughter. Then he appears in court. Then he says there’s no conflict.”
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t need to.
“You’re asking people to believe this is coincidence.”
I kept my gaze level.
“I’m asking people to focus on facts,” I said. “Dreamland’s permits, planning, financing, and scope have existed independently of any personal history. The opposition is political and cultural—not personal.”
“So you never knew Ms. Muniz would be involved?” he asked. “Not at the time your company began land negotiations?”
I didn’t blink.
“I’m not here to discuss my private life,” I said, voice still measured. “I’m here to discuss Dreamland.”
“And yet,” he said softly, “your private life is what the public is discussing.”
The interview continued like that—each question sharper, each angle tighter. He asked about sealed court proceedings. About the optics. About coercion. About power. He never accused me outright.
He didn’t have to.
Because he was letting the audience do it for him.
By the time the red light finally shut off, my shirt felt like it was sticking to my back.
I stood immediately, jaw rigid, the taste of defeat bitter in my mouth.
In the dressing room, André was already waiting—phone in hand, his expression pulled tight with contained urgency.
“Well?” I asked, no pleasantries.
André hesitated just long enough to be honest.
“Terrible,” he said. “Social media is tearing you apart. They’re calling it staged, manipulative. Your answers sounded… rehearsed. Like you were hiding something.”
I exhaled through my nose, anger sitting hot behind my ribs.
“Of course they are.”
“It’s not just social media,” he added. “The board is calling. Investors are calling. A few of them are already panicking.”
I ran a hand down my face, the exhaustion finally breaking through the mask.
“You think I don’t know?” I snapped, keeping my voice low because staff was still nearby. “I’ve been trying to fix this for weeks.”
“And it isn’t working,” André said, blunt.
I stared at him.
He didn’t look like a lawyer in that moment.
He looked like a man watching a wall crack in real time.
“Then maybe it’s time to stop pretending we can fix it with press releases,” he said carefully. “We need a move that changes the entire picture.”
I already knew what he meant.
My stomach turned.
“Not yet,” I said, stubborn. “There’s still another way.”
André’s gaze held mine—pity and frustration tangled together—but he didn’t push. Not then.
That night, back at the mansion, the silence felt like accusation.
I poured whiskey with a heavy hand and went straight to the temporary office. Reports stacked. Messages stacked. Crisis measurements, projections, investor notes.
Everything looked like numbers.
But it felt like blood.
I stared at the screen until my eyes burned, and for the first time in a long time, I understood something I hated:
I wasn’t in control.
I fell asleep at the desk.
Woke up to my phone ringing like a siren.
André’s voice hit my ear before my brain fully caught up.
“Enrico, we have a problem.”
“What now?” I rasped, rubbing my temples.
“The first international partner just officially withdrew,” he said. “They cited reputational damage and instability.”
My throat tightened.
That partner wasn’t optional.
They were a pillar.
“We can replace them,” I said automatically.
“No,” André cut in. “Not quickly enough. And it gets worse.” He paused—just long enough for dread to settle. “The European holding—the biggest investor—they called me personally.”
My blood went cold.
“They’re threatening to pull everything,” André said. “All funding. All capital. Unless we deliver a definitive solution within twenty-four hours.”
Twenty-four.
I stood so abruptly the chair scraped the floor.
“That’s not a negotiation,” I said, disbelief turning into rage. “That’s blackmail.”
“It’s leverage,” André replied, exhausted. “And we gave it to them.”
I stared at the wall, jaw locked, breathing too tight.
“What do they want?” I asked, though I already knew.
“They want an undeniable public demonstration that Dreamland isn’t being driven by personal conflict,” André said. “Something that kills the story—completely. Permanently.”
I let out a low curse, pacing once, twice—like I could outwalk reality.
“We’ve tried everything,” I said, voice tight. “Nothing will convince them in twenty-four hours.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then André spoke again, quieter.
“I hate saying it, Enrico,” he said, “but there’s only one move left that flips this overnight.”
I shut my eyes.
I could see it like a headline already.
Like a knife.
“A public marriage to Valentina,” I said, low and bitter.
André didn’t deny it.
He didn’t have to.
“People can hate you,” he said. “They can hate Dreamland. But if you marry her, the revenge narrative collapses. It becomes reconciliation. It becomes family.” He paused. “It becomes stability.”
It also became humiliation.
A concession I never imagined making.
But Dreamland wasn’t just a project anymore.
It was the company’s future.
My seat.
My leverage inside my own family.
And if Eloá decided I was weak, she would cut me loose like she cut everything else.
My phone vibrated again.
A call I didn’t want.
A call I couldn’t ignore.
Eloá Ferrara.
I answered.
“Nonna.”
Her voice was ice.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she snapped. “The board is questioning whether you’re fit to lead. If this isn’t contained immediately, they will remove you. And I will not stop them.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“I’m handling it,” I said.
“You have hours,” she replied. “Not days.”
The line went dead.
I stood there for a moment, breathing through anger like it was poison.
Then I looked at André.
He didn’t look triumphant.
He looked grim.
“There’s no other way, is there?” I said, and I hated how it sounded like surrender.
André shook his head once.
“No.”
My pride bucked. My stomach turned.
But I had been built on hard choices and brutal sacrifices.
I didn’t retreat.
Not ever.
“Fine,” I said at last, voice turning flat. “We do it.”
André exhaled—relief, and something like sympathy.
“I’ll start prepping the board and the investors,” he said immediately. “And PR. We’ll frame it as reconciliation. Stability. A commitment to the community.”
I barely heard him.
Because my mind was already on one thing:
Valentina.
I grabbed my phone and dialed the number I would’ve paid anything to never dial again.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then her voice came through—tight, irritated, guarded.
“What do you want, Enrico? Haven’t you done enough damage?”
I swallowed the bitterness at the back of my throat and forced my voice into something cold and decisive.
“We need to meet. Now.”
A pause.
Then suspicion.
“For what?”
“I’m proposing a definitive solution to this crisis,” I said. “And you’re going to want to hear it, Valentina.”
Silence, tight as wire.
Then, finally—
“Fine,” she said, controlled, distrust dripping from every syllable. “I’m waiting.”
I ended the call and stared at the screen for a second too long.
I was about to ask Valentina Muniz to marry me again.
Not for love.
For survival.
And no matter the personal cost—
I would not let everything I built burn to the ground.