Vierva startles at Dante's sudden proximity, her heart leaping into her throat. She jumps up from the vanity chair, the emerald green skirt of her gown billowing around her legs as she turns to face him. Her eyes are wide and wary as she takes in his tall, imposing figure looming over her.
He's so close, too close, she thinks, her breath coming a little faster as panic starts to rise in her chest. I can feel the heat of his body, the power radiating off him in waves.
She takes a step back, her heel catching on the hem of her gown. She stumbles slightly, her hands coming up to grip the lace at the bodice of her dress to steady herself. Her heart is pounding, her palms growing clammy with nerves.
Don't be foolish, she scolds herself, trying to calm the rising tide of fear. He won't hurt you, not here, not now. He wants to show you off, to parade you in front of the world like a trophy.
But even as she thinks it, she can't shake the instinctive fear that rises in her at his sudden approach. Years of conditioning, of being grabbed, manhandled, used, come rushing back to the forefront of her mind.
He's not like them, she reminds herself, her voice trembling slightly. He's not going to hurt you. He wants you to be strong, to be brave.
She takes a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. She looks up at him, meeting his gaze head on. Her chin lifts slightly, a flicker of defiance in her eyes.
"I...I didn't hear you come in," she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You startled me."
Show no weakness, she tells herself, squaring her shoulders. Be strong. Be brave. You can do this.
Despite the fear coiling in her belly, she forces herself to stand tall, to meet Dante's gaze with a level one of her own. She won't cower before him, no matter how much her body screams at her to run, to flee.
This is your life now, she reminds herself. He's your life now. Face him. Face this.
Dante reaches out and takes Vierva's hand in his, his long fingers wrapping around her own. His palm is warm and slightly calloused, the skin rough from years of...what? Vierva wonders briefly. What has this man done to have such hands?
He gives her hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a surprisingly tender gesture. "It's time to go," he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to reverberate through Vierva's chest.
He wants to show me off, Vierva realizes, a flicker of unease passing through her. He's not taking me out to be kind, or thoughtful. He wants to parade me in front of his friends like a trophy, a prize he's won.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, a resurgence of the old anger and resentment that she thought she had buried long ago. I am not a trophy, she wants to shout at him. I am not a prize to be won or a bauble to be displayed.
But even as the thought crosses her mind, she knows that protesting now would be futile. Dante has made it clear that he holds the power here, that he can do with her as he sees fit. And right now, he wants to show her off to his friends.
So be it, Vierva thinks, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. I will go with him, I will be on my best behavior. But I will not forget that I am my own person, that I have a mind and a will of my own.
With that resolve in mind, Vierva allows Dante to lead her out of the room, her hand tucked securely in his. As they walk down the long hallway, the click of Dante's shoes against the marble floor echoes loudly in the cavernous space.
One step at a time, Vierva tells herself, taking a deep breath as they approach the grand staircase that leads down to the foyer. Just take one step at a time. You can do this.
She knows that the real challenge won't be navigating the crowded room of Dante's friends and associates. No, the real challenge will be remembering her own worth, her own value, in the face of being objectified and ogled by a room full of strangers.
I am more than just a pretty face and a nice figure, she reminds herself as they descend the grand staircase.