Meet Adrian's partners

The dinner at 'Le Ciel' was a choreography of power and possession. Under the restaurant's golden light, Adrián wasn't just dining; he was executing a play. Just as dessert arrived at the table, two men approached. Roberto, middle-aged with an oily smile, and Emilio, younger, with the icy gaze of a hawk.

"Adrián, we need you right now," Roberto said without preamble, his tone affable but with an underlying urgency. "We have an... unforeseen issue with next week's shipment. Your input is required. Now."

Adrián didn’t seem surprised. He nodded gravely.

"Of course." His hand found Magi’s arm, a firm gesture that brooked no argument. "Magda will stay with us. Her discretion is guaranteed."

It wasn’t a question. Magi was lifted from her chair almost by the **** of that contact, the red dress rustling softly. They guided her not toward the exit, but to a private elevator she hadn't noticed, hidden behind a wooden panel. The elevator descended to a lower level, to what seemed to be a private wine cellar converted into a discreet and luxurious boardroom, with dark wood paneling and a mahogany table.

The change of scenery was brutal. From the frivolity of the restaurant to the cold seriousness of dirty business. Magi was placed in a chair in a corner, near Adrián, like a valuable vase or an expensive painting. Her role was clear: to be an ornament, a symbol of Adrián's confidence, and a mute witness.

The meeting began. Roberto spoke of a "documentation problem at Rotterdam customs," of an "official asking for more than agreed." Emilio provided dry data: percentages, dates, names of ships. Adrián listened, motionless, his fingers drumming on the table.

"We can't divert the cargo," Adrián said finally, his voice cutting. "The buyer in Zurich won't accept delays. Fix it. Use the contingency fund. Bribe whoever is necessary. But that merchandise leaves on Friday."

Magi, sitting in her corner, with the scarlet dress feeling increasingly conspicuous and out of place, absorbed every word. Rotterdam, Zurich, contingency fund, Friday. It was pure gold for Costa. But she was trapped, with no possibility of taking notes, recording, or doing anything other than smiling weakly when Roberto's gaze settled on her, as if seeking approval.

"Your... company is very quiet, Adrián," Roberto commented during a pause, his gaze roaming over Magi's body with unconcern. "A rare virtue."

"Rare virtues are the most valuable, Roberto," Adrián replied without looking at her, but his hand reached out and rested on Magi's bare leg, just above the knee. The possession was physical, tangible. His fingers, warm and firm, closed slightly—not with lust, but with control. It was a silent reminder of her place: quiet, motionless, and his.

Magi held her breath. The contact burned through her skin. Every word about bribes and containers mixed with the sensation of that hand on her leg. It was a double-edged ****: the humiliation of being an object and the pressure to remember every detail for her report.

The meeting showed no signs of ending. New problems arose, new names. Emilio mentioned someone called "The Dutchman" and a "secondary port in Belgium" as Plan B. Adrián weighed the options, cold and calculating.

Suddenly, Adrián's phone vibrated. He looked at it, and a shadow crossed his face.

"Excuse me a moment," he said, standing up and leaving the room, leaving Magi alone with the two associates.

The silence was instant and oppressive. Roberto and Emilio then looked at her without the filter of Adrián's presence. Their smiles disappeared.

"So you are the new distraction," Roberto said, his tone now flat and analytical. "I hope you are as discreet as you seem. Adrián likes toys, but he gets bored quickly. And broken toys... are discarded."

Emilio said nothing, but his gaze was enough. It was the look of someone who knows how to dispose of the waste.

Magi, under the weight of those stares and with the ghost of Adrián's touch on her leg, knew the meeting was far from over. And that she, trapped in her corner of red silk, was much more than a spy in that moment. She was a pawn in a much larger and more dangerous game, and her value depended on her ability to keep playing the role of the luxury doll—perfect, silent, and, above all, disposable. The night wasn't over. It had only entered its most critical phase.