With a message

The calm shattered in the most abrupt way possible. Magi was in her apartment, mending the seam of her sweatpants for the umpteenth time, when the burner phone buzzed on the table. Her heart gave a wild lurch. There was no doubt who it was.

The message was short and direct:

I'm back tonight. I expect you at the penthouse at 9. We need to talk.

It wasn’t an invitation. It was a summons. Magi felt the panic—momentarily numbed by the monotony of her punishment—flood back into her with full ****. Talk? About what? About the night at the pool? About her sister? Had he discovered something?

With trembling fingers, she messaged Costa: Soler summoning me. Penthouse. 21:00.

The reply was immediate: Go. Obey. Report.

There were no instructions, no advice, no warnings. Just the cold order to step back into the lion's den.

Magi looked at herself in the mirror, no longer feeling the urge to cling to the façade of Cadet Rojas. The humiliation had become trivialized. She understood the game now: Adrián didn’t want an undercover cop; he wanted Magda, the woman who wore black bikinis and daring dresses. And Magda had to be ready for the performance.

She went to the closet. During the week of "dead calm," using the money Adrián had transferred to her, she had made an acquisition. It wasn’t a piece of casual clothing. It was a deep red satin evening dress, short and vibrant, reflecting the light like a wound. The cut was simple: a strapless neckline and a skirt that wouldn’t even reach mid-thigh. It was bold, provocative, a femme fatale uniform she had chosen herself. She took out the matching stilettos.

Getting dressed was an act of acceptance. The satin, cold at first, quickly adapted to her body, clinging like a second skin. The heels elevated her, forcing her posture to straighten. She didn’t bother with underwear; the idea of additional clothing felt redundant and annoying to her.

Looking in the mirror, she didn’t see a costume, but a polished version of herself weaponized, ready for a war of seduction in enemy territory. Cadet Rojas had stayed home; the sophisticated and lethal Magda was ready.

The trip to Torres del Este was an agonizing déjà vu. The same doorman, the same silent elevator, the same imposing door. But this time, when it opened, Magi entered already sheathed in scarlet satin and elevated by stilettos.

There was no sign of Valeria. Adrián was alone, standing in the living room, dressed in an impeccable dark suit. His expression was serious, inscrutable.

"Magda," he greeted her with a simple nod.

His gaze swept over her, taking in the evening dress that screamed the presence of the woman he had created. There was no surprise in his eyes, but a deep and calm satisfaction. It wasn’t admiration for the object, but approval of the choice, the confirmation that she had understood and executed her role without the need for orders. The satisfaction of a collector seeing that his piece has adapted perfectly to its ecosystem.

"Adrián," she managed to say, her voice a little husky.

"I thought that the last time you were here the... circumstances weren't ideal," he began, walking slowly toward her. "I want to make up for it. I’ve booked a table at 'Le Ciel'."

It was the most exclusive and expensive restaurant in the city. Magi didn’t protest about her clothes, or the need to change.

"I see you understood the dress code," he commented, with a tone that wasn’t a compliment, but an affirmation of his power. "Perfect. That’s how I like it."

Adrián draped his tuxedo jacket over his arm and offered her the other. Magi, feeling the seams of the dress constricting her chest, slid her hand through his arm. The contact of the satin against the fine wool of his suit was soft and sinister.

They went down in the elevator in silence. The sports car was waiting for them. Magi settled into the seat, the red skirt riding up several centimeters more, exposing her legs without her caring. She was going to a luxury dinner, dressed in passion red, on the arm of a man who had humiliated her.

This wasn’t an infiltration mission. It was a reminder of her place. And the short red dress shouted that place to the world. The dinner at 'Le Ciel' wasn’t compensation. It was the staging of her own capitulation.

And she, sheathed in scarlet satin, was the main attraction.