As I locked my office, I took in the empty corridors. Everyone had left hours ago, leaving behind nothing but an absolute, uncomfortable silence.
I preferred it that way.
Fewer people. Fewer interruptions. Fewer expectations.
Fewer eyes.
The elevator carried me down to the underground garage, where my driver waited—patient, as always. He opened the rear door and I slid inside without a word. Minutes later we were moving through the crowded streets toward my last obligation of the night.
A charity dinner sponsored by Ferrara Group—one of those mandatory, protocol-heavy events I despised, but attended for purely strategic reasons.
A public image of power was also sustained by calculated gestures, however empty and irritating they were.
When the car stopped in front of the luxury hotel hosting the event, I inhaled and put on my usual mask—the one of the successful man who was always in control.
A mask I wore perfectly.
I’d been practicing since I was very young.
The double doors were opened for me by impeccably trained staff, and moments later I was immersed in the main ballroom—filled with guests wearing their finest clothes and their most polished fake smiles.
I moved through the space, greeting important people with short handshakes and cool, professional eye contact. I did exactly what was expected of me.
After nearly an hour of superficial interaction, I found a more secluded table reserved strategically for me. Perfect. Present without having to participate.
A skill I valued.
“Good evening, Mr. Ferrara.” A soft female voice appeared at my side just as I tried to take my first sip of wine.
I turned and found Cristina Brandão—beautiful, perfectly made up, the youngest daughter of one of our biggest investors. Her discreet smile and interested gaze left no doubt about her intentions.
It happened often at these events.
And I dismissed it the same way every time—politely, coldly.
“Good evening, Cristina,” I replied, keeping my expression neutral.
She slid into the chair beside me, crossing her legs with a movement clearly studied to draw my attention.
“I didn’t expect to see you alone. Pleasant company always makes these events more tolerable, don’t you think?”
I lifted an eyebrow, assessing her. Cristina was attractive, intelligent, influential—exactly the kind of woman who should interest me if I were any other man in that room.
But I wasn’t.
“That depends on the company,” I said dryly, turning my gaze back toward the ballroom, making it clear I wasn’t interested.
She looked momentarily surprised by the veiled rejection, but she didn’t give up immediately. Women like Cristina rarely did.
“My father speaks very highly of you,” she continued. “He admires your posture in business.” Her hand landed briefly on mine, casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all. “It would be wonderful to have the chance to talk somewhere else… maybe with a bit more privacy.”
I removed my hand with deliberate care and turned back to her, my coldness intentional.
“I appreciate the invitation,” I said evenly, “but I’m afraid my free time is extremely limited. And when I do have it, I prefer to spend it on things that are actually important.”
Her eyes widened a fraction—surprised, offended—but she recovered quickly, forcing a smile.
“I understand. What a shame, Mr. Ferrara.”
