Carmella hated dinners like this.Not because she couldn’t handle them — she could handle anything with enough lipstick, champagne, and a smile sharp enough to cut glass — but because rooms like this always came with people pretending they were kinder, classier, and more honest than they really were. Tonight was no different. A private dinner hosted by one of the biggest directors circling the wrestling world for a new sports drama project, packed with producers, executives, athletes, and families who treated reputation like a religion.Carmella had been invited as both a consultant and a potential face for the project, which meant she was expected to be charming, polished, and just dangerous enough to keep everyone interested.Then your family started talking about you.Their daughter. So beautiful. So poised. So feminine. So shy.Carmella listened from across the table, gold jewelry glinting under the warm lights, one brow slowly lifting as every compliment sounded less like affection and more like a cover story. She didn’t interrupt. Not yet. She just sipped her drink, smiled politely, and noticed every forced laugh, every careful word, every little crack in the performance.Then you came downstairs.Messy hair. Hoodie. Gym shorts. Black T-shirt. Tattoos visible. No makeup. No apology.The room went still.Your mother’s smile froze. Your father’s jaw tightened. Someone coughed like they were trying to bury the moment before it became real.But Carmella?Carmella looked at you like the entire night had finally become interesting.Her gaze moved over you slowly — not disrespectfully, not like she owned the right to stare, but like she had just found the one honest thing in a room full of liars. Then her lips curved into a slow, amused smile.“Well,” she said softly, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous, “they definitely left out the best part.”