Chapter 2

Elizabeth’s POV

My temper didn’t cool the moment I stepped outside. If anything, the heat of the afternoon only fed it.

I nearly collided with Mr. Gallagher on my way out. He flinched and stumbled backward, pressing himself against the wall as though I might strike him.

On any other day, that fear would have delighted me. Today, it only made my anger burn hotter.

Because I had never—not once in my entire life—been humiliated the way I had been humiliated inside that restaurant.

And certainly not by a man. A man whose name I didn’t even know. A man whose face I had been shamelessly admiring only minutes earlier.

I wanted to curse myself. I wanted to reach back through time and strangle every thought I’d had about how beautiful he was. Every ridiculous, fleeting fantasy about his mouth.

No. That man wasn’t beautiful. That man was my enemy.

*I’m supposed to be the villain here,* I thought bitterly. *And he stole the role from me in less than five minutes.*

I wanted revenge.

But I couldn’t go back inside. Not after everyone in that room had watched me force a grown man onto his knees. Not after that blue-eyed bastard had held up a mirror and forced me to look at my own reflection in front of an audience.

I had humiliated myself without realizing it. That was the part I couldn’t forgive.

Still, I refused to let it end there. I had been called a monster more times than I could count, and I had survived every single accusation. There was no chance I would lose to one arrogant man in a tailored suit.

Never. I walked past Gallagher without sparing him another glance and headed toward my car.

Which was, of course, still parked directly beside theirs. Wonderful.

I yanked the rear door open and slid inside, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame. I told myself I wouldn’t look. I told myself the man wasn’t worth another second of my attention.

My head turned toward the window anyway. There he was.

Seated in the seat where I seated earlier? Framed perfectly by the window, holding a glass of wine as though nothing had happened at all.

As though he hadn’t just ruined my morning. As though he hadn’t stood in the middle of a restaurant and dismantled Elizabeth Buenaventura in front of thirty strangers.

He looked utterly at ease. Composed. Unbothered. I imagined him recounting the story to Gallagher later, the two of them laughing about the spoiled heiress who thought her name made her untouchable.

My hands curled into fists.

“Where the hell is Peter?” I snapped at no one, slamming my fist against the empty seat beside me.

My chest rose and fell as I glared through the tinted glass, but he didn’t so much as glance in my direction. He didn’t know I was watching him.

Or worse—he knew, and simply didn’t care.

A few minutes later, Mr. Peter came sprinting across the parking lot and dropped into the driver’s seat, breathless.

“Why did that take so long?” I demanded. “I’ve been sitting here waiting.”

His shoulders hunched. “I’m sorry, Miss. I had to settle the bill for your meal.”

“That took ten minutes?”

“No, Miss.” He hesitated. “I also spoke with the staff about what happened earlier. I asked them not to spread anything. Some of the customers may have taken photos, and I didn’t want anyone posting false information about you online—”

“Don’t bother yourself with them.”

“Miss—”

“I said don’t bother.” I turned back toward the window. “I can have every photo taken down before dinner. People only record things because they’re desperate for attention.”

My lips curved into something cold.

“And I’m sure those pictures are already circulating. People love scandals. It gives their empty little lives meaning.”

Mr. Peter said nothing. He started the engine, and the car pulled away from the port—away from the place where Elizabeth Buenaventura had lost for the first time, to a man whose name she didn’t even know.

I leaned back against the seat and exhaled. “And stop lowering yourself on my behalf,” I said after a moment. “How many times must I tell you? Don’t apologize to people for me.”

“I only did it because I didn’t want anyone misunderstanding you, Miss.”

“There’s nothing to misunderstand. They saw exactly what happened.” I turned my face toward the window. “Ignore them. A barking dog eventually tires itself out when no one reacts. It gets nothing, so it slinks away embarrassed.”

Mr. Peter nodded quietly and said nothing more. We had barely reached the highway when my phone began to ring inside my purse.

I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. My stomach dropped before my brain caught up.

Father.

I rolled my eyes, mostly to prove to myself that I could, and lifted the phone to my ear.

“What idiotic stunt did you pull in that restaurant, Elizabeth?” His voice thundered through the speaker, loud enough that Mr. Peter’s eyes flicked toward the rearview mirror before he wisely looked away. “Do you have no shame left? Do you understand that you are destroying my name?”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and let out a long, silent breath. Word traveled fast among cowards.

“It’s already handled, Father,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Mr. Gallagher deserved it.”

“Deserved it?” The word cracked like a whip. “That man is one of my assets, and you decided he deserved it? Have you lost your mind? All you had to do was follow my instructions. Instead, you made a spectacle of yourself and embarrassed me.”

I fell silent. I could picture him perfectly—standing behind his desk on the top floor, jaw tight, voice ricocheting off the walls of his office while his secretary pretended not to hear.

There wasn’t a single day of my life when I hadn’t heard that tone from him.

Everything I did was wrong. Every decision I made was insufficient. I had spent twenty-six years trying to be enough for that man, and I had never once succeeded.

I bit the inside of my lower lip.

The anger I’d carried out of the restaurant began to shift into something heavier. Something that settled in my chest and pressed down until it was difficult to breathe.

Shame. I hated that word.

“You are a Buenaventura,” he continued. “You are the sole heir to everything this family has built, and you can’t follow one simple instruction without turning it into a scandal?”

I swallowed against the tightness in my throat.

He’s only angry because he cares about the company, I told myself. Because he cares about the family name. That’s all.

I had been telling myself the same thing since I was a child.

“Fix this, Elizabeth.” His voice dropped, and somehow that was worse than the shouting. “If this reaches my friends—or my enemies—you will not like what I do next.” The call ended.

I stared at the darkened screen, gripping it until my hands began to tremble. Then I tipped my head back against the seat and blinked at the ceiling, over and over, until the burning behind my eyes receded.

I would not cry. Not in front of my driver. Not in front of anyone.

I would not give my father the satisfaction of knowing his words still had teeth. When I was certain my voice would hold, I dialed Janet.

“Find whoever posted the photos from the port,” I said. “Every account, every repost. I want them gone within the hour. Offer whatever amount is necessary.”

“And if they refuse, Ms. Elizabeth?”

“Then find out what they’re afraid of.”

I hung up. There were things money couldn’t buy, but fear was rarely one of them.

I turned my attention to the front seat. “Who was that rude man with Gallagher?”

Mr. Peter didn’t answer right away.

I was already preparing to snap at him when our eyes met in the rearview mirror, and I saw the confusion written plainly across his face.

“What?” I demanded. “Am I supposed to wait all afternoon?”

“Miss…” He cleared his throat. “Do you honestly not know who he is?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Did it look like I knew him?” I asked flatly. “Would I be asking you the name of that animal if I already knew it? Are you stupid as well, Peter?”

“I’m sorry, Miss.” He tightened his grip on the wheel. “It’s only surprising. It seems you may be the only person who doesn’t recognize him.” Now that was interesting.

“Why? Who is he? A millionaire?”

“Most likely, Miss.”

“Most likely?” My voice rose. “I need an answer, Peter, not a guess. What exactly am I supposed to do with that? Calculate the net worth of a man whose name I don’t know?”

I pushed a hand through my hair. He was quiet for a few seconds, as though weighing whether the information would cost him his job.

“His name is Victor Samaniego.” I stilled.

“Samaniego,” I repeated slowly.

The name settled onto my tongue like something expensive.

“Yes, Miss. He’s the only son of former CEO Uriel Samaniego and his wife, Wendy. When his parents relocated to the United States, he assumed control of their holdings. He’s built a considerable reputation for himself over the past few years, which is why Mr. Gallagher was so eager to meet with him today.”

My eyes narrowed. “Wait.” I sat up straighter. “Is he the one from that blind item? The wealthy heir with blue eyes?”

“Ah, that.” Mr. Peter gave an awkward laugh. “I couldn’t say, Miss. I don’t follow gossip columns.”

Of course he didn’t. Useless. Still, the name remained, circling my thoughts like a shark.

*Victor Samaniego.*

At last, I had something to work with. Now the only question was what to do with it.

Should I dismantle his reputation? Bleed his business dry? Make him regret the moment he decided to open his mouth in that restaurant?

Or something far more entertaining?

“Miss,” Mr. Peter said carefully, breaking into my thoughts, “I don’t like that smile. Are you planning something wicked again?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “And what do you intend to do about it? Stop me?”

“Absolutely not, Miss. My career wouldn’t survive the attempt.”

“Good. At least you understand your position.”

“But I’m concerned Mr. Buenaventura may become angry again.” He had a point.

Unfortunately for him, points had never been particularly persuasive to me.

“My father won’t know unless someone tells him,” I said. “And I doubt you’re volunteering.”

He didn't say anything.

I leaned back and looked out the window. The afternoon had settled into something calmer, the sky above the highway stretched wide and cloudless.

A clear, cutting blue. The exact shade of Victor Samaniego’s eyes. My expression soured immediately.

Erase him from your mind, Elizabeth.

I exhaled through my nose.

“You know me, Peter,” I said. “I don’t lose. Especially not to someone like him. I’m not the kind of woman who accepts defeat because some arrogant, handsome monkey decided to embarrass her in public.”

His eyes flicked toward the mirror. “I need to even the score,” I continued. “Which means I need to find out what he’s afraid of.”

“You truly sound like a villain, Miss.”

“Hello?” I gave him a proud smile. “That’s precisely what I am. Now drive faster. I want a shower.”

I crossed my arms. “And before ten o’clock tonight, I want a complete report on Victor Samaniego. Family, holdings, education, business history, friends, enemies, relationships—everything. I want to know that man better than he knows himself.”

Mr. Peter didn’t argue. He simply nodded, and I could practically see him mentally drafting the message he would send Janet the moment we arrived.

He knew exactly what happened when he failed to deliver.

No work meant no money.

“Yes, Miss.”

---

By evening, I had showered and changed into silk loungewear, curled into the corner of the sofa in my living room with my phone in hand and the city glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

At half past nine, someone knocked.

I opened the door to find Janet standing in the hallway in pink pajamas and slippers, holding a thick stack of documents against her chest. She lived two floors below me—an arrangement I had insisted upon precisely for nights like this.

“Oh, hello, Janet.” I glanced at the folder. “Is that the report?”

“Yes, Ms. Elizabeth.” She handed it over.

Peter had clearly delegated the entire thing to her, exactly as I had expected.

“Thank you, Janet.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Elizabeth.”

I closed the door, returned to the sofa, and opened the folder.

I skipped past the corporate structure, past the acquisitions and the projected valuations, and went straight to the section that interested me most.

His personal life. And there, I found something surprising.

For a man with that face, that fortune, and that reputation, Victor Samaniego had only two documented relationships.

Two?

I frowned at the page.

Was he genuinely that inept with women? Or did he simply prefer to be pursued rather than to pursue?

I kept reading. The report was thorough—almost academic—covering his education abroad, his company’s trajectory since he took the helm, and his notoriously limited public appearances.

But the longer I read, the more my mind wandered where it shouldn’t. To the sharp line of his jaw. To the maddening calm in his voice when he told me no.

To those infuriating blue eyes that hadn’t flinched once. Victor Samaniego was far too attractive for an insufferable man.

Slowly, an idea began to take shape—elegant, patient, and thoroughly ruinous.

A smile spread across my lips. I lifted his photograph from the stack and held it between my fingers, studying that composed, unreadable face.

“You’re going to be my next project, Samaniego,” I whispered, tapping my nail against his cheek.

My smile widened. “I suggest you prepare yourself. Because I’m coming for your entire life.”