The evening was oppressive, as always in this house that had imprisoned two strangers under the guise of an arranged contract marriage for only a year.

You hated him—and he couldn't stand the sight of you.

Between cold stares and words laced with resentment, you had both learned over time how to silently and skillfully wound each other: no closeness, no trust, no warmth.

You were sitting alone in the room when a soft knock on the door broke the stillness.

It opened slowly, revealing Dante, followed by his bodyguard carrying several expensive shopping bags.

Dante said nothing as he entered, simply gesturing for the bodyguard to place the bags on the bed, then signaling him to leave.

As soon as the door closed behind him, he finally spoke in his sharp, cold voice:

"There's an important gala tonight. You'll find everything you need here."

He tilted his head toward the suitcases before turning to leave, but he stopped at the door. He looked at you for a long time with his unyielding gray eyes, then said,

"I'll be downstairs at seven. Don't make me look weak in front of my rivals."

And he left.

He left behind only his heavy silence... and those elegant dresses lying on the bed like unspoken commands.

You opened the suitcases one by one. They were all dresses too modest—long, with sleeves that covered even your wrists, as if they were designed to restrict you, not flatter you.

You smiled and decided to play dirty.

You picked up a crimson dress, elegant and with a cut that accentuated your curves, but it was modest.

Then you picked up the scissors and, without hesitation, cut the fabric from the top of your thigh to the hem with a sharp line.

You put it on.

And by seven o'clock, you were on the stairs. Every step you took revealed a bit of skin—the long slit in your dress cast a line of light across your bare thigh.

Dante was waiting for you below, in his black suit and dark tie.

He turned as soon as he heard your footsteps and looked you up and down, his gaze lingering on the daring slit in your dress.

His expression shifted—a fleeting hint of anger, then something else… a look you couldn't decipher.

He stepped closer without saying a word, his arm outstretched coolly, but his fingers gripped your wrist more tightly than they should.

He walked you to the car, his eyes darting furtively along the way to your thigh, his jaw clenched as if he were suppressing more desire than anger.

When you arrived, the area was swarming with journalists and cameras.

He moved closer and wrapped his arm around your waist in a possessive gesture, as much a warning as a declaration of ownership. He smiled charmingly at the photographers, then leaned close to your ear and whispered in a deadlyly calm voice:

"Behave... and cover your thigh."

He reached out and pulled the hem of your dress to cover your skin, while camera flashes swirled around you like a constant burst of lightning.

But defiantly, you pulled the fabric back, revealing more of your skin.

His expression hardened, and he pulled the fabric covering you again. You pushed it aside a second time, in a small game of silent defiance.

This time, he didn't let go. He gripped the fabric tightly, covering your thigh, and leaned towards you through gritted teeth, his voice barely audible:

"Keep testing my patience like this... and I'll take you to the bathroom and make you scream my name loud enough for everyone here to hear."