Risk Contract: The CEO's Fake Wife

Chapter 8: Dynamic Equilibrium

"I have meetings all morning. Be ready at noon. Wear the cream dress I had sent to your closet. And for God's sake, hide the fuzzy socks."

He walked past her. As he moved, the air displaced by his body hit her—sandalwood and cold ambition. He didn't touch her. He didn't even look back.

The equilibrium was re-established. On the surface, nothing moved. But Livia’s heart was beating fast enough to power the entire building.

At 11:55 AM, the private elevator chimed.

Livia was standing in the center of the living room, wearing the cream sheath dress Stefano had selected. It was modest, elegant, and boring. It made her look like a politician's wife.

"Do I look adequate?" Livia asked the empty room, mimicking Stefano’s voice.

The doors slid open.

Stefano stepped out first, looking tense. Behind him walked a woman who could only be the Matriarch.

Dona Beatriz Ferraz was tiny, but she occupied space like a neutron star—dense and terrifying. She wore a Chanel suit, pearls that were definitely real, and an expression that suggested she smelled something unpleasant.

"So," Beatriz said, stepping into the penthouse. She didn't look at the view. She looked straight at Livia. "This is the girl."

Livia stepped forward, extending her hand. "Livia Torres. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dona Beatriz."

Beatriz ignored the hand. She walked a slow circle around Livia, inspecting her like a prize horse at an auction.

"Torres," Beatriz mused. "I don't know any Torres from the Jardins circle. Who are your people?"

"My mother is a retired schoolteacher," Livia said, keeping her chin high. "My father was a mechanic."

Beatriz stopped. She looked at Stefano, one eyebrow raised perfectly. "A mechanic. How... rustic."

"Livia is brilliant, Mother," Stefano said, stepping between them. He placed a hand on the small of Livia’s back. It was the "Public Stefano" again—possessive, protective. The heat of his palm burned through the cream fabric. "She anchors me."

"Anchors sink ships, Stefano," Beatriz countered sharply.

She sat on the white sofa, crossing her ankles. "Well, sit down. Let’s see if she has a brain to match the face."

The next hour was an interrogation disguised as lunch. Beatriz asked about Livia’s education (public university), her career goals (logistics), and her thoughts on the current economic climate (Livia quoted an article she had read on Stefano’s desk, which seemed to surprise them both).

Stefano sat next to Livia the whole time, his thigh pressing against hers. Under the table, his hand found hers. He laced their fingers together, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on her skin.

It was an act. Livia knew it was an act. But when Beatriz asked the question Livia had been dreading, the grip tightened.