She arrives at his villa.

Isabella arrived at Carlos Silva’s villa in a sleek, black luxury car with tinted windows, one of her father’s fleet, chosen deliberately for its discretion. The estate lied on the outskirts of Montesoro’s capital, perched on a hillside overlooking the sprawling city and the azure waters of the bay beyond. It was a blend of opulence, excess, and privacy, available only to the countries' economic elites.

The villa itself was an architectural masterpiece, a sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion with creamy stucco walls, terracotta roof tiles, and grand arched windows that flood the interiors with light. Carlos Silva’s staff awaited her arrival, standing in a neat row before the entrance. A valet stepped forward to open her door, bowing slightly as he did.

Isabella hesitated for a moment, her hand gripping the edge of her seat, before she stepped out. She had dressed to seduce, but the unrelenting gaze of the servants made her feel self-conscious, the sheerness of her dress amplifying the sense that she was wearing nothing at all.

As she was led up the red brick steps toward the massive double doors, she could hear the faint strains of music and laughter from within the villa, a sign that Carlos was entertaining guests. The heavy doors opened before she could reach them, revealing the man himself, grinning broadly and dressed in a simple linen shirt, unbuttoned just enough to suggest casual, yet Isabella was under no doubt it had cost more than what the average Montesoran family would earn in a year.

“Isabella,” he said warmly, his tone overly familiar, “welcome to my humble home. I hope the drive wasn’t too taxing.”

She **** a small smile and stepped inside, her heels clicking against the marble floor. The opulence of the interior hit her immediately. The main hall, with its soaring ceilings and marble floors, was illuminated by a massive chandelier imported from Venice. The walls were adorned with original artwork from famous Latin American and European painters, alongside provocative contemporary pieces that hint at Silva's audacious taste. A grand piano, rarely played but often admired, sat in one corner, while plush sofas and low tables form intimate clusters for his glamorous soirées.

The villa's most striking feature, however, is the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the sprawling grounds with manicured gardens and terraced walkways, beyond which lied the entire city. Someone standing here could easily imagine himself King, Isabella thought.

Carlos followed her gaze, his grin widening.

"Do you like it?" He asked, the pride obvious in his voice. "It's my little piece of paradise, though it cannot compare with your palace, of course."

"It's very nice," she replied curtly.

He laughed, gesturing for her to follow him to the sofas. The sound of conversation and laughter drifted from another room, reminding Isabella that they were not alone.

They sat, and Carlos signaled for the butler to pour them drinks.

"What would the lady prefer?" He asked.

"Just water, please," she said, trying not to stare at the way his shirt peeled back, revealing a surprisingly muscled chest.

"I'm afraid we do not serve water under this roof," he said with a smirk. "No no, I insist we partake in a bottle of wine I recently acquired, at great cost I might add. From the year 1955, before your father was Presidente. It will be a crime not to sample such a vintage in your presence."

She nodded reluctantly, a sinking feeling in her stomach as the butler set the glasses down in front of them and poured the ruby-red liquid. The rich, earthy aroma filled her nostrils, making her feel slightly lightheaded.

"A toast," Carlos said, raising his glass. "To the new Presidente, and to her bright future."

She nodded, taking a small sip. The wine was sweet and smooth, with a hint of oak and spice.

They sat in silence for a few moments, Isabella's gaze fixed on the swirling wine in her glass, her mind racing with what to say.

Carlos was the first to break the silence.