I THOUGHT YOU WERE STRONGER

CHAPTER FIVE

The dinner continues with polite conversation that feels like walking through a minefield. Every word is measured. Every smile calculated.

I'm pushing food around my plate, trying to look normal, when one of the women speaks up.

She's older, maybe fifties, wearing diamonds that probably cost more than my entire college education. Her smile is practiced perfection.

"So, Elena," she says, drawing everyone's attention. "You don't strike me as someone from Colombia. How did you and Mr. De León meet?"

My fork freezes halfway to my mouth.

Every eye at the table turns to me.

I reach for my water glass, taking a long gulp to buy myself time. The cool liquid does nothing to ease the tightness in my throat.

How am I supposed to answer that?

Oh, you know, my uncle sold me to pay his gambling debts. I was kidnapped, drugged, and woke up in a cage in Medellín. Mr. De León here bought me at a human trafficking auction. Very romantic.

I can feel Dante's eyes on me. When I glance his direction, there's an obvious smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

He looks at me intensely, his dark eyes carrying a clear message: Don't mess this up.

Then his hand moves deliberately to his pocket. Pats it once.

The vibrator.

My stomach drops.

He's reminding me what he can do. What he will do if I say the wrong thing.

"We..." I swallow hard, forcing my voice to sound steady. "We met in California. At a book fair."

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

"A book fair?" The woman's eyebrows rise with exaggerated delight. "My goodness, what an unlikely place to see Mr. De León! He doesn't strike me as the reading type." She laughs, a tinkling sound that grates on my nerves. "Must be destined love, then. Fate bringing you together in such an unexpected place."

There's something artificial about her enthusiasm. Like she's saying one thing but meaning something else entirely. Like she knows I'm lying and is mocking me for it.

Or maybe she just thinks someone like me doesn't belong here.

She's probably right.

"Reeves," one of the older men says suddenly. He's been quiet most of the meal, watching everything with sharp, calculating eyes. "That name doesn't ring a bell. What industry does your family command?"

The question lands like a punch to the gut.

Industry. Command.

These people measure worth in empires and bloodlines.

I look at Dante, silently pleading for help. For him to say something, anything, to redirect the conversation.

He looks back at me with that same neutral expression. Almost... amused.

He's enjoying this.

The realization hits me like ice water. He wants to see me squirm. Wants to watch me try to explain that I'm nobody. That I come from nothing.

He wants to remind me exactly how powerless I am.

My hands clench in my lap. "Maybe you should search more thoroughly," I say, keeping my voice as even as possible.

The man frowns, clearly not satisfied with that answer. "I know every family of consequence in North and South America. If your family commanded any industry worth noting, I would know the name."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Then Dante speaks, his voice casual. Conversational.

"She's a waitress," he says simply. "She serves at bars and clubs at night. Isn't that right, honey?"

The endearment sounds like mockery.

He looks at me with that same neutral expression, like he's discussing the weather. Like he didn't just throw me to the wolves.

My face burns.

"Oh..." The woman's voice changes. Cooler now. "I see."

"A waitress," another woman repeats, as if testing the word. Like it's something distasteful.

"That explains why the name didn't ring a bell," the man says with a dismissive nod. "Her family doesn't have a name to know."

Polite nods around the table. Smiles that don't reach eyes. The shift in atmosphere is immediate and brutal.

I'm no longer an equal. I'm something beneath them. An oddity. A mistake.

How did he even know I was a waitress?

Of course. He had me investigated. Probably knows everything about my pathetic life. And he chose this moment, in front of all these people, to expose it.

To humiliate me.

To show me exactly how powerful he is and how powerless I am.

I wait for him to say something else. To defend me. To tell them I'm more than my job. To remind them I'm his supposed fiancée and they should show respect.

He says nothing.

Just cuts into his steak with precise movements, completely unbothered.

The conversation moves on. Someone mentions business dealings in São Paulo. Another talks about property investments in Miami.

I'm invisible again. Dismissed.

My throat tightens. My eyes burn.

I will not cry. I will not give them the satisfaction.

But the humiliation sits like lead in my stomach. The embarrassment crawls over my skin like insects.

This isn't the first time I've been looked down on. I've spent my whole life being told I'm worthless, that I'm nothing, that I don't matter.

But somehow, having Dante do it hurts worse than all of them combined.

I don't know why I expected him to defend me. He kidnapped me. He's keeping me prisoner. Why would he care about my dignity?

But some stupid, naive part of me thought... I don't know what I thought.

That his possessiveness extended to protecting me from this?

Apparently not.

"Excuse me," I say quietly, pushing back from the table. "I'd like to use the restroom."

Polite nods. They barely glance at me as I stand.

I walk away from the table on shaking legs, following the signs that say "Baños" with an arrow pointing down a hallway.

The corridor is mercifully empty. Quiet. Away from their judgmental stares and fake smiles.

I find the bathroom, as ridiculously luxurious as everything else in this place, all marble and gold fixtures, and lock myself inside.

The second the door closes, the tears threaten to spill.

No. Don't cry. Don't give him that power.

But my chest aches. My hands shake.

I grip the edge of the marble sink, staring at my reflection in the enormous mirror.

I look exactly like what they saw: young, out of place, wearing a dress that doesn't belong to me in a world I have no business being in.

A waitress playing dress-up.

Nobody.

Why does it hurt?

I've been called worse. Treated worse. My uncle spent twenty years telling me I was worthless garbage that he only kept out of obligation.

But having Dante expose me like that, in front of all those people, with that casual indifference...

It shouldn't matter. I hate him. I do.

So why does his betrayal feel like a knife between my ribs?

My vision blurs. I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall.

That's when I see it.

My eyes.

They're glowing.

Not my normal brown. A brilliant, ethereal blue, ice blue

My wolf is surfacing.

She never does this. She's always been too weak, too suppressed. But now, in this moment of emotional turmoil, she's rising up through whatever barriers Marcus's potions created.

I stare at my reflection, at the inhuman glow in my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I look powerful.

Not like prey.

Like a predator.

The bathroom door opens.

I don't need to turn around to know who it is. The air itself changes when he enters, gets heavier, charged with electricity and danger. The scent of expensive cologne and something wild underneath fills the small space.

Dante.

Of course he followed me.

Can't let his possession wander too far unsupervised.

I don't look at him. Just keep staring at my glowing eyes in the mirror, watching them slowly fade back to brown as my wolf retreats.

His reflection appears behind mine. Tall, powerful, completely at ease while I'm falling apart.

"I thought you were stronger than this, little one."

His voice is quiet. Almost gentle.

That makes it worse somehow.