THE DEVIL'S BRIDE

AURORA DUARTE

The music starts like a dirty caress, scratching the air heavy with overly sweet perfume and gazes dripping with hidden intentions.

Red lights flare, bathing the stage in the color of sin.

I step in. And they go wild.

Wearing nothing but a black bodysuit encrusted with crystals and sheer stockings that cling to my legs like hungry lovers, I walk to the center.

The black lace mask covers my eyes, but I see everything. I feel everything.

"It's her! Venus!"

"Show us more, baby!"

"Dance for me, princess!"

They scream like animals. Some throw money before I even move. Others just drool.

But none of them know my real name. None of them know who I am. Who I used to be.

The beat kicks in—deep and pulsing—and my body responds like it's possessed.

I grip the pole, twirl, stretch, arch. Every move is precise. Nothing is by chance.

Every movement is a well-told lie.

They think I love being here. That I enjoy being watched, desired, worshipped.

But the truth is, I hate every second.

I hate this exposed skin, these slimy stares, this music that screams how far I've fallen.

Because I don’t belong here.

My name is Aurora Duarte. And I should be living in a penthouse with an ocean view, driving a car with my name on the title, wearing haute couture I didn’t buy with filthy tips.

But when my father died, his wife—that elegant viper everyone called “the real one”—took everything from me. With help from her children. They erased me like I never existed.

And no one questioned it. No one cared about the daughter of the mistress.

All I had left was this.

To dance.

To pretend.

To survive.

The music ends. I stand in the center of the stage, chest heaving, sweat trickling down my spine. Applause erupts. Money rains down. But I don’t smile. I never do. I turn and walk off without looking at anyone.

Backstage smells even worse—cheap deodorant, expired makeup, and resentment.

Some dancers look at me with admiration. Others with envy.

I am the star of La Nuit. The goddess Venus.

If only they knew the goddess is in ruins.

"Venus." Gilmar, the manager, stops me, his vodka breath unbearable.

"Private room. Client wants to see you."

"You know my rule," I walk past him.

"I don’t do private sessions. Not today. Not ever."

"He paid a lot. The owner says you have to go."

I need this job. I need to pay rent. I take a deep breath.

"Five minutes. And if he touches me, I’ll knock his teeth out with my heel."

I walk to the private room. My heart beats faster—not from excitement, but fury mixed with exhaustion.

When I open the door, the scent of expensive cologne hits me before I see him.

He’s facing away. Tall, flawless, in a tailored suit.

Staring at a vintage painting of a dancer from the 1940s like it’s high art.

But I recognize those broad shoulders, that intentionally messy hair, that arrogance—even from the back.

Lorenzo Valente.

The devil of the elite is here.

The prince of the Valente empire. Billionaire heir. Walking scandal.

Every month, a new dirty party, a leaked video, a woman crying online.

He’s the elite’s worst nightmare wrapped in luxury.

And now he’s standing right in front of me.

"I’m here." My voice comes out cold and sharp. I cross my arms, ignoring the fact that I’m nearly naked.

He turns slowly, like he rehearsed it. And smiles.

"You dance well, Aurora Duarte."

My heart nearly stops when he says my real name—no one here knows it.

"How do you know my name? What do you want?"

"I want you."

I laugh. Short. Cynical.

"I don’t sleep with clients."

He steps forward and tosses a folder on the table.

"I want you as my wife."

Silence swallows the room. My stomach flips.

"You’ve lost your mind. Is this a joke?"

"No. It’s a proposal. And before you say no..."

He opens the folder.

Inside, copies of my father's original will. One that was never made public. One where my name is listed, entitled to 40% of the company.

"I know who you are, Aurora. Daughter of Henrique Duarte. Legitimate heir to Duarte International. They stole it from you. I have proof. The original will."

My knees nearly give out. But I won’t give him the satisfaction.

"And why show me this now?"

"Because I need you." He looks at me like he’s saying something simple.

"My father made it a condition for me to take over Valente Corp. I need to marry a woman with a clean image. Decent reputation. Just for six months."

I laugh again. Bitter this time.

"You? Decent? You were caught with three women and a bottle of whiskey between your legs on a yacht in Ibiza."

"That’s me," he says, amused.

"But I know how to play the game. I just need the ring on your finger. After that, we go our separate ways. You get enough money to disappear... or maybe, take back what’s yours."

I move closer. Slowly. Each step echoes like a threat.

I get so close I can feel the heat of his body.

The scent—rich, intense, full of power.

Lorenzo is a very handsome man. Blue eyes. Black hair.

A true devil.

My hand touches his suit. I feel the fine fabric. The symbol of the life they stole from me.

"How much would I get to be your fake wife?"

He smiles and points to the paper inside the folder.

My eyes widen.

A lot of money.

Way more than I’d earn here in years.

"There will be a contract. Everything clearly stated."

I lift my head, meeting his gaze.

I blink, thinking of everything I could have with his influence.

"So what’s your answer, Aurora?"

"I still need to think. I’m still a person, and you can’t just walk in here thinking your dirty money can buy me."

He studies me with that cold, sarcastic look.

"I’ll be waiting for your answer by tomorrow morning."

He turns, ready to leave, when I speak again.

"If I say yes... don’t expect an obedient doll, Lorenzo."

He smiles. His eyes glint with something between desire and danger.

"I don’t want a doll. I want a ticking bomb."

I take a step forward. My voice comes out low and firm.

"Good luck, then."

I stare straight into his eyes.

"Because I haven’t said yes yet."

The ceiling fan creaks like a wounded animal, turning slowly in the suffocating heat of my room.

The paint on the wall is peeling in thin strips, like the skin of something dying.

I throw my purse on the bed and collapse beside it, still wearing last night's smudged makeup and the bitter taste of Lorenzo’s proposal on my tongue.

My feet hurt.

My pride even more.

I don’t take the costume off.

The black bodysuit with crystals still clings to my sweaty skin, as if reminding me where I’ve been—and who I’ve become.

A loud knock yanks me from my haze.

"Aurora!"

It’s the landlord. Gruff voice, impatient.

"You’re already two weeks late! If you don’t pay by Friday, you’re out! Or maybe you find another way, and we talk."

The disgusting suggestion in his tone makes my stomach turn.

"You'll never touch me with your dirty hands, Gilberto!" I shout, not even bothering to get up.

He laughs—cynical—and walks away.

I turn to the side and stare at the small nightstand. There it is. The black card with golden letters: Lorenzo Valente. Cold, elegant, dangerous. Just like him.

I pick it up and hold it between my fingers, thinking about what he said.

Marriage.

Six months.

A lot of money.

And maybe... justice.

I open the folder he left behind. The documents are still there, neat and polished.

The original will.

My father's name.

My name.

The proof that everything they have now was supposed to be mine.

I close my eyes.

"You’ll crawl back to me one day, girl," my stepmother used to say, always with a glass of wine and venom in her voice.

"You’re nothing but your father’s mistake."

I take a deep breath. Tomorrow is another day. A day with no money, no future. But it’s still mine.

The next morning, I go out to buy bread.

Wearing a loose hoodie, my hair tied up, no makeup, and just a few coins in my hand.

The bakery is two streets away from the boarding house. I have to walk, still sore from the night.

I turn the corner and then I see them.

My stomach tightens.

Stepping out of a fancy French restaurant in the middle of breakfast, dressed in designer clothes and fake smiles.

Laura, my half-sister, is wearing that same tight white dress she flaunts on Instagram.

And Caio, mommy’s golden boy, with an expensive blazer thrown over his shoulder like he’s on the cover of a magazine.

Beside them, her—the stepmother. Elisa.

Dripping in gold, dyed hair flawless, tongue always sharpened.

I think about crossing the street.

But it’s too late.

Laura sees me first.

"Well, well... look who crawled out of her cave."

She gives a nasty little laugh.

"Or are you working day shifts now too? Pole hours expanding, sis?"

Caio pretends to be shocked.

"Aurora? Is that you? Wow, you look homeless."

The stepmother steps closer, her heels clicking like she owns the world.

"Leave her alone, darlings. Poor thing. Must be heading to the bakery for leftovers... or maybe scouting for a sugar daddy. That’s her trade, after all."

My face burns, but I don’t look down.

I step forward and face the three of them.

Blood boiling. Eyes stinging.

"Everything you have..." I say, my voice low and firm, "was mine. Every brick of that house. Every company share. Every diamond. Every car. All of it—stolen from me."

Laura rolls her eyes.

"So dramatic. Grow up. Dad died, and you weren’t on paper. That’s called justice, baby."

Caio laughs. Elisa crosses her arms, cold as ever.

"You were never family. Always the mistake. The regret. It wasn’t me who put you in the gutter... that was fate."

I almost lunge at her, but stop myself.

Not worth it. Not yet.

"We’ll see each other again," I promise, with a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips.

"And next time, you’ll be the ones looking down."

I walk away before my hands do something that lands me in jail.

But inside me... something shifts.

It’s not just rage.

It’s fire.

Determination.

They need to pay.

And maybe the devil in a suit is the price I have to pay to make that happen.

Back in my room, I lock the door and sit on the bed.

My fingers tremble slightly as I pick up my phone.

The card is still there. Waiting.

I dial the number slowly.

He answers on the third ring.

"Lorenzo Valente."

His voice is exactly how I remembered—confident, teasing.

"It’s Aurora."

A pause.

"I knew you’d call," he says calmly.

I stay silent for two seconds. Then reply:

"I accept. Six months. Marriage. The money. Everything."

"Excellent. Regrets?" he teases.

"Maybe. But if this gets me back where I belong..."

My eyes burn with hatred.

"Then it’s worth every second."

"Want to review the contract with a lawyer?" he asks.

"No. I just want one clause to be crystal clear."

"Which one?"

"I’m not yours. I’m not your doll. There’ll be a ring on my finger, but if you try to use me like a toy... I’ll destroy you too."

He chuckles. A low, satisfied sound.

"I think this is going to be... fun. I’ll see you this afternoon. Private location. I’ll send you the address."

I hang up before he can say anything else.

I fall back on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and finally, I smile.

It’s not happiness.

It’s war.

And I just accepted the first invitation to the battlefield.

I grab my phone again and this time, I Google his name.

In seconds, dozens of pictures flood the screen.

Lorenzo, caught by paparazzi outside his company.

Lorenzo at parties, always with different women.

I click one. Look closely at his face.

Then I imagine myself as his wife.

A billionaire’s wife.

He’s a cynical man, and I know he’ll try to get me into his bed.

But my goal is simple.

Pretend.

Just pretend for six months.

I can’t fall for Lorenzo Valente.

AURORA DUARTE

The black car stops in front of my run-down building, completely out of place in the dirty, worn-down neighborhood.

A driver in a suit steps out, far too polite for a place where no one smiles.

"Miss Duarte?" he asks, as if I still carried that last name with any pride.

"Mr. Valente is waiting."

I get into the car wearing my worn leather jacket and faded jeans.

I'm not pretending to be anyone else. He’ll have to deal with who I am now — not the forgotten daughter of an empire, but the woman who had to learn to walk barefoot on the rough ground of the real world.

The car drives across the city and stops in front of a five-star hotel, gleaming like a precious jewel.

I go straight up to the penthouse. The door opens. There he is.

Lorenzo Valente. Impeccable as always. Charcoal gray suit, hair slicked back, the kind of gaze that’s never heard the word "no" in his life.

He looks me up and do