THE DEVIL'S BRIDE

CHAPTER 2

AURORA DUARTE

The black car stops in front of my run-down building, completely out of place in the dirty, worn-down neighborhood.

A driver in a suit steps out, far too polite for a place where no one smiles.

"Miss Duarte?" he asks, as if I still carried that last name with any pride.

"Mr. Valente is waiting."

I get into the car wearing my worn leather jacket and faded jeans.

I'm not pretending to be anyone else. He’ll have to deal with who I am now — not the forgotten daughter of an empire, but the woman who had to learn to walk barefoot on the rough ground of the real world.

The car drives across the city and stops in front of a five-star hotel, gleaming like a precious jewel.

I go straight up to the penthouse. The door opens. There he is.

Lorenzo Valente. Impeccable as always. Charcoal gray suit, hair slicked back, the kind of gaze that’s never heard the word "no" in his life.

He looks me up and down, and a smug smile curls on his lips.

"Jeans and leather? Bold choice. Marching to a protest or walking down the aisle?"

"I came to sign a contract, not impress you." I walk past him without giving space.

The penthouse is absurd. Double-height ceilings, windows that overlook the entire city, a massive bed made for sin, and an open bottle of wine on the dining table, next to a meal that looks straight out of a royal banquet.

I stop in front of the bed.

"Do you always book suites with beds like this for... strategic purposes?"

He closes the door with a soft click.

"It’s more private. No photographers. No witnesses. Just you and me."

He pours me a glass of wine. As the scent hits my nose, something freezes me.

"This wine..." I murmur.

"My father used to drink this exact one. Just one glass, on special occasions. It was too expensive."

"I know." He hands me the glass.

"Henrique Duarte loved the 1998 Bordeaux. I bought an entire case just for that reason."

"You really are a manipulative bastard."

"And you’re smarter than they think. That’s why I want you in this."

I sit at the table. He does the same. The contract is already there, next to the silver cutlery.

French cuisine, expensive wine, marriage contract. It might look like a romantic dinner, but it’s really a war pact.

"Before you sign..." he starts.

"I want you to understand what you're getting access to. As my wife — even if temporarily — you'll have the same status. Unlimited credit cards. Full access to elite circles. Galas. Balls. Board meetings. You’ll be 'Mrs. Valente.' At least on paper."

"And at public events, we pretend to be in love?" I ask, flipping through the pages.

"Fake kisses, fake affection, fake smiles?"

"That’s in clause fourteen." He points at the page, mockingly.

"Public displays of affection. Smiles. Holding hands. You might even have to call me 'darling.'"

"Ridiculous." I shake my head.

"And what if I slap you in front of the cameras?"

"The media will love it. But the shareholders won’t. If the board suspects anything, the deal dies and you walk away with nothing."

I grab the pen but pause, glancing at the bed again.

"When’s the wedding?"

"In a few days. Nothing flashy. Everything will be ready."

"And what happens in that bed? Is sleeping with you part of the package too?"

He leans slightly closer, voice low and deep.

"I don’t force anyone, Aurora. But... if you ask, I’m happy to oblige."

I smirk, sarcastic.

"Arrogant down to your last hair."

"Just realistic."

I sign. Every letter feels like a small death and a grand revenge.

He signs next, like sealing a pact with the devil.

Then he stands and picks up a black box from an armchair.

"Put this on. Now."

"What?"

I stand, eyeing the box suspiciously. I open it. Inside: a dark red, tight-fitting luxury dress and matching high heels.

"This is ridiculous." I hold up the dress.

"You taking me to parade in hell?"

"For dinner. It’s time for our first public show."

"So that’s it? I barely signed, and the performance starts?"

He smiles. The kind of smile that would make any naïve girl drop to her knees.

"The show has only just begun, Aurora. And you've just landed the lead role."

The zipper sticks halfway up my back.

"Damn it!" I growl, yanking harder.

The red dress clings like a second skin. Luxurious, provocative, tailored to attract attention — and, of course, to be impossible to zip up alone.

My leather jacket and jeans are tossed in a corner of the bathroom. I glare at the mirror, fuming.

The door opens without warning.

"You’re going to rip it."

I spin around, furious. Lorenzo leans against the doorframe like he owns the place, his blue eyes scanning my body with professional shamelessness.

I cross my arms.

"You always invade bathrooms?"

"Only when the lady in question curses loud enough to wake the entire hotel."

I roll my eyes.

"I’m dressed. You can leave."

He steps closer, ignoring me.

He stops right behind me, just inches away. His fingers find the zipper. Slowly, he pulls it up, brushing lightly over my hips.

"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice lower than I’d like.

"Practicing," he replies, his mouth near my ear.

"We’re going to need to look like we’re in love. Naturally intimate. What better place to start than with a zipper?"

I open my mouth to respond, but my eyes widen when he slaps my ass.

"You look like a hot wife. I like that."

I step away with a glare, but my heart races — against my will.

Minutes later, we descend together to the hotel restaurant. He in a tailored suit. Me, a vision in red. All eyes turn.

At dinner, he’s all smiles, light touches, rehearsed compliments.

I fake laughs, let him hold me by the waist. A perfect act.

Until he stands and silences the restaurant with a gentle tap of his wine glass.

I blink, suspicious.

He kneels in front of me.

"Aurora Duarte, will you marry me?"

The ring gleams like a diamond trap.

I freeze.

"You’ve lost your mind?" I whisper through clenched teeth.

"Say no now, and you’ll be back dancing at that club."

I smile on the outside. Inside, I want to punch that pretty face.

"Of course, darling."

He slips the ring on my finger. Then leans in.

"Kiss me," he whispers.

I grab him by the collar and kiss him. Intense. Almost real.

The restaurant erupts in applause. Cameras capture everything. The perfect image of the perfect couple.

But when we return to the penthouse, the show ends.

I glare at him, still in the red dress, my lipstick smudged and the ring on my finger feeling like a shackle.

"Somewhere in that frozen chest of yours, you enjoy this, you bastard."

He turns, too calm.

"You’re delusional."

I step closer, defiant.

"This is a deal so we both get what we want. You get the CEO position. I get back my stolen inheritance. But don’t try to use me, Lorenzo."

Before I can say more, he shoves me against the wall — one hand on my shoulder, the other gripping my waist.

"I could have picked any woman for this. Any..." he whispers, inches from my face, eyes deadly serious.

My body tenses as his knee presses between my legs, his hands locking my wrists beside my head.

"Then why me?"

"Because you know how to play in high society. And because you have nothing to lose. Or rather, everything to gain."

We’re so close I can hear his breath.

I swallow hard. He’s about to kiss me. Almost.

I push him away, irritation boiling inside.

"I don’t like you."

He smirks.

"The feeling’s mutual."

I turn toward the bathroom, but he speaks again.

"Tomorrow, you’re not going back to that dump you call home. You’ll have a new apartment. Something worthy."

Back at the boarding house, I stare at the ceiling for a long time before sleep finally comes.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the grimy window. I look at my hand. The ring is still there. And heavier than ever.

The phone vibrates. "Elisa" on the screen.

I answer.

"You really think you’re getting away with this, you slut? A man like Lorenzo doesn’t marry trash like you!"

I smile, cold.

"Funny... he seems to disagree. Maybe it was the sparkle from my ring. Or the fact that the whole world saw it. I’m going to be a Valente, Elisa. And I’ll take what’s mine."

She screams more insults, but I hang up. Revenge has a sweet scent.

I check my phone. The headlines are everywhere:

"Lorenzo Valente Proposes to Henrique Duarte’s Estranged Daughter"

"Who Is the Mysterious Aurora Duarte?"

"Family Drama, Lost Inheritance, and Powerful Alliances"

I get up, eyes gleaming.

Something slides under the door.

An envelope. Inside, a key with the logo of a luxury condo. And a note:

"Pack what matters. You move in today. – Lorenzo"

I smirk.

The war has begun. And I’m in it — in high heels, a red dress, and a revenge ring on my finger.