Jessica sat on the bed, legs crossed, watching in delight as her maid worked. She and her mother had joined forces - while mom interrogated Amelia about her European upbringing, Jessica tested the limits of Rosa's supposed femininity.

Standing in the wardrobe doorway, Rosa slammed the final hanger into place, wedging a black Chanel cocktail dress between a silk Valentino gown and a Dior wrap dress.

"¡Ya está! Every piece, organized by designer. Are you happy now? Do you finally believe that I am not your father? Or shall I arrange them by ‘cuteness’ again? I do have a house to clean, you know," she muttered in Colombian. "Imbécil! ¡Qué mocosa insoportable!"

Jessica savored the sight - the flustered maid, dark curls tumbling from her white headband, her bosom rising and falling in agitation beneath the tightly fitted black dress. Rosa was the easier of the two to tease; while Amélie had a tendency to dissolve into helpless tears, Rosa burned hot and fast, temper flaring at the slightest insult. Was it just her father playing up to stereotypes? She rather hoped so. After all the years he'd sneered at her wardrobe, called her outfits immodest, to have him now trapped in an equally feminine body, tending to her dresses, heels, and handbags, was intoxicating.

Still, she had to set her biases aside. A million dollars was riding on this.

"My boyfriend will be here soon. Pick me an outfit for him."

Rosa’s jaw clenched, fingers twitching as she resisted the urge to slap her employer. "Niña estúpida," she hissed, eyes flashing. "All my life ordered around by arrogant Americans. But at least, when this game is over and your cockless father is trapped as that pretty little French girl out there, there will be one less in the world. I cannot wait to see the look on his face when he realizes he has lost everything."

"That makes two of us," Jessica smirked. "Now, my outfit?"

Rosa snapped a sky blue dress from its hanger. She strode to Jessica and held it against her body, her fingers pressing to mold it to her curves. "There."

Jessica eyed it warily. That dress. Her father had hated that dress. He’d once called it tacky, claiming it made her look cheap. Was this reverse psychology? Deliberately choosing something he never would have approved of?

"I haven't worn that in years," she mused. "It washes out my complexion."

"But it showcases the best assets of your body, no?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Your cleavage."

"Ah hah!" Jessica clapped her hands in victory. "Of course you'd fixate there - spoken like a real man!"

Rosa tilted her head, countering smoothly. "Or a lesbian. But not, I think, spoken like a father." Her full lips curved into a slow smile at the surprise that elicited. Before her employer could recover, Rosa caught her in a kiss. Jessica's eyes widened as their curves pressed together, though her resistance soon faded.

"Bu-but the cameras," she squeaked breathlessly as they parted.

"Déjalos mirar," Rosa shrughed. "I am done playing the games of spoiled American girls."

"Either telling the truth..." Jessica gulped. "...Or really... really desperate."

"I intend to win this competition. I'm sure I can persuade you that I am not your father. And when your boyfriend arrives…" Her lips curled into a dangerous smile. "I’ll persuade him, too."