CHAPTER 04

𝐏𝐎𝐕 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐀

Dinner was not over yet, and the minutes seemed to drag on. The men talked incessantly—so many topics, business after business. Meanwhile, my mother remained the same: quiet, with calculated movements.

And I ate slowly, to avoid giving them any opportunity to ask me questions or make comments.

I picked up my glass of juice, took a small sip, and put it back on the table.

When I looked up, I noticed that Dom Vittorio was watching me.

In the wrong way.

Again.

He was practically undressing me with his eyes. His gaze lingered for a long time on the horrible neckline of the dress he had chosen.

"Helena," I heard my name come out of his mouth. I had to control myself not to roll my eyes. "You don't talk much," he commented, swirling the wine in his glass. "I like that. Women who talk too much usually cause problems."

My father smiled slightly.

I don't think I had ever seen him so pleased. He laughed at everything Dom Vittorio said.

I, on the other hand, kept a neutral expression, but inside I was about to explode.

“Maybe I just know when it’s worth speaking,” I replied.

Silence fell heavily over the table.

My mother, who had been eating quietly, froze with her fork halfway to her mouth. She didn’t lift her gaze, but I could see the shock on her face.

My father slowly turned his head toward me.

Dom Vittorio raised an eyebrow.

“Well…” he said, an idiotic smile spreading across his face. “She’s got fire.”

My stomach twisted.

“Too much fire sometimes needs to be put out early,” he added, never taking his eyes off me. “Before it turns into a blaze.”

I felt the warning.

“She’s still adapting,” my father said, his voice already tense. “It wasn’t meant as disrespect.”

Dom Vittorio rested his elbow on the table. His face was more serious now.

“Education can be taught,” he said, still staring at me. “Or corrected.”

I looked at my father. I couldn’t help it.

“I wasn’t disrespectful,” I said. “I only answered.”

That was enough for my father’s patience to snap.

He stood up and moved toward me.

The sound was sharp.

The slap crossed my face before I could even process the movement. My head snapped to the side. I tasted metal in my mouth. The burn spread quickly across my skin.

Dom Vittorio watched it all, satisfied.

“See?” he said, as if offering advice. “There’s still time to teach her.”

My mother closed her eyes for one second. Just one.

My father leaned in, his face close to mine.

“Stay quiet,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Or I’ll make it worse.”

I straightened up slowly. I didn’t cry. Furthermore, I didn’t touch my face. I learned early that reacting only fed their egos.

Dom Vittorio stood up shortly after.

“I’ve seen enough for today,” he said. “We’ll talk soon.”

He walked past me and touched my chin with his fingers, lifting my face without asking permission.

“She learns fast,” he said to my father. “I like that.”

He didn’t say goodbye to anyone. He left. The door closed behind him.

The silence that followed was more cruel than the slap.

My father turned to me, his expression hardened.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he asked quietly. “Do you know the embarrassment you caused me?”

“I only answered,” I said, my face still burning.

He laughed without humor.

“You opened your mouth when you shouldn’t have.” He stepped closer. “You’re not here to speak. You’re here to obey.”

“He’s old and disgusting,” I let slip. “He looked at me like I was—”

The second slap came even harder than the first.

“Never speak about the Dom like that again!” he shouted. “Never answer back. Never look him in the eyes!”

I bit my tongue until it bled to keep myself from responding. Answering would only make everything worse.

My vision blurred for a moment.

“You should be grateful,” he continued. “He wanted you. He paid well for you.”

Before I could respond—or even breathe—the dining room door opened again.

My father’s right-hand man stepped in.

Ramírez.

He entered without asking permission, as always. Tall, with a posture far too relaxed for someone who carried so many deaths on his shoulders.

His gaze passed over my father first—respect—then my mother—indifference—and finally landed on me.

His eyes traced my still-burning face.

Then they lowered.

Slowly. Without hurry. Without shame.

He assessed the neckline of the black dress as if examining newly delivered merchandise. The vulgar shine of the fabric seemed to draw even more attention under the dining room lights. I wanted to cross my arms to hide, but I remained still. Any movement would be noticed. And commented on.

“I see dinner was… productive,” he said at last, turning to my father.

“It was,” my father replied. “The Dom was pleased.”

Ramírez nodded, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, as if the information pleased him.

“She made a good impression,” he commented casually. “That makes things easier.”

The way he said she made my stomach churn.

My father pulled out a chair and sat again, gesturing for Ramírez to do the same. Neither of them told me to leave. I had to endure that torture.

“Did the Dom mention anything else?” Ramírez asked.

“He talked about the wedding,” my father replied. “He wants everything settled quickly.”

“Natural,” Ramírez said. “He doesn’t like leaving business unfinished.”

Business.

The word slid into me like a slow blade.

“Did his family approve?” Ramírez continued.

“No objections,” my father said. “On the contrary. They see it as a strategic move.”

Strategic.

Ramírez crossed his legs, resting his arm on the back of the chair.

“And the heir?” he asked, as if remembering a technical detail. “Any reaction?”

“Alessandro?” my father replied. “He’s traveling. Handling family matters abroad.”

Alessandro.

The name sounded different from everything else that had been said. Stronger. More… respected.

“He’s his father’s pride,” Ramírez commented. “Intelligent. Discreet. Extremely loyal. Cold. Calculated.”

“He was prepared from an early age,” my father added. “A true successor.”

They spoke of him with an almost reverent tone, as if that name alone carried enough weight to silence any other subject.

“When he returns, everything will already be settled,” Ramírez said. “The Dom likes to have the house in order before passing on certain responsibilities.”

“Exactly,” my father agreed. “Stability is essential.”

Stability.

I looked at my mother.

She was still there, seated, silent, her posture too rigid. Controlled movements, as if every gesture had been rehearsed to avoid drawing attention. She didn’t react to my marked face. Didn’t react to my silence. Didn’t react to my fate being discussed in front of her.

That was how one survived in that house.

Ramírez looked at me once more.

“She’ll adapt,” he said calmly, terrifyingly calm. “They always do.”

My father nodded.

“She learned today.”

I learned.

I learned that my voice was provocative.

That my reaction was a mistake.

That my body already had a defined value—and an owner chosen.

Ramírez stood.

“I’ll inform them that everything went as expected,” he said.

He left without saying goodbye, the same way he had entered.

My father turned to me one last time that night.

“Go upstairs,” he ordered. “Tomorrow we start the preparations.”

I only nodded, silent. I stood slowly and turned my back to climb the stairs.

Furthermore, I went up feeling my face burn, my chest tight, and an insane urge to vanish. To disappear.

They thought I had learned.

What they didn’t know was that it wasn’t a submission.

It was survival.