Someone who follows her

The order arrived with the precision of a surgical strike. Adrián’s message was brief: "A new dress is waiting for you. Wear it to your meeting at the café. I want Fiore to see what he’s trying to get himself into."

When Magi reached the penthouse, the dress lay on the sofa like a pool of liquid mercury. It was a silver fabric—metallic and heavy—designed to fall like a second skin. Elegant, yes, but with a technical perversity: it was opaque in the shade and treacherously transparent under direct sunlight. And, as Adrián had emphasized, the structure did not allow for a single layer of lingerie underneath. The fabric was coarse, a tactile reminder of who dictated the rules.

"So he understands that discretion has its limits," Adrián remarked from the shadows. "And that mine are much more flexible than his."

Magi did not lower her gaze. On the contrary, she studied the dress with professional coldness. She didn't see it as a humiliation, but as the next level of her armor. If Adrián wanted to exhibit her, she would use that display to destabilize Lorenzo and confirm her "loyalty" in the eyes of the security team.

Dressing was an act of calibration. The silver cloth clung to her curves, and seeing herself in the mirror—with nothing but metal against her skin—Magi did not feel ****. She felt lethal. Every breath marked in the fabric was a reminder that she was a high-value asset in a war of nerves.

"Emilio will be watching you," Adrián added, adjusting a stray lock of her hair with a possessiveness she already knew how to process as background noise. "Make sure the conversation is as transparent as your dress."

The café was a modern showcase of immense windows. Magi arrived first and chose the table most exposed to the afternoon sun. She felt the rays piercing through the silver weave, revealing her naked silhouette to the passersby, yet she remained impassive, relishing the impact she caused. She was no longer the cadet who blushed; she was the woman dominating the stage.

When Lorenzo arrived, his reaction was a lesson in control: an imperceptible blink and a fleeting tension in his jaw. He knew this was a message from Adrián—a visual slap in the face.

"Magda," he greeted, sitting down. His eyes sent a coded signal: I understand the game. Hold firm.

"Lorenzo," she smiled, leaning back in her chair so the sunlight could do its work, knowing Emilio was watching from somewhere. She made no move to cover herself; instead, she displayed her "exposure" with a naturalness that bordered on insolence.

The conversation about the art market flowed with precision. Magi focused on Lorenzo’s every word, but also on maintaining her performance for Emilio. She knew her feigned discomfort was necessary for Adrián to believe his humiliation tactics were working.

"True art," Lorenzo said, holding his cup calmly, "doesn't need to scream. Its value lies in what it suggests, not what it flaunts. Elegance is found in restraint."

Magi caught the double meaning. It was a warning not to lose her center.

Upon finishing, Lorenzo said goodbye with impeccable formality. As she stood, Magi paused for a second in front of the window, letting the sun turn her into a revealed silhouette—a final image for Emilio to report to his boss. She felt no blush; she felt the pleasure of a mission accomplished.

As she got into the car, Costa’s red phone vibrated in her hidden bag, but it was Adrián’s phone that displayed Emilio's messages:

“Clean meeting. They only talked about art. She seemed uncomfortable in the light. The Italian didn’t bite, but he couldn’t stop looking.”

And then, Adrián’s message:

“See? Your transparency bored him. Next time, we’ll have to be more… persuasive.”

Magi closed her eyes and leaned back in the seat. The silver dress chafed against her skin, but it was no longer a reproach. It was the price of infiltration. Adrián believed he was breaking her, when in reality, she was using his own sadism to secure her position. "More persuasive," he had said. Magi smiled in the darkness of the car. The more Adrián tried to use her, the more access she would gain to the core of his empire. The battlefield was her own body, and she was winning the war inch by inch.