"Every good play starts with a convincing opening scene," I said, my tone openly provocative. It wasn’t a sentence—it was a matchstick. I threw it deliberately, watched the spark fly, relished the first flare in her eyes. I wanted to see her burn—feel every wave of her anger so I could fuck it out of her later, until nothing remained of her defiance but the faint tremor in her voice when she moaned my name.
Her reaction was immediate. Her head jerked back slightly, her eyes narrowed, and then it came—like the hissing crack of a whip: "You vile, narcissistic bastard. You really think you can get away with anything, don’t you?"
I suppressed a grin, felt my pulse slow into heavy, triumphant beats—God, she was perfect when she raged.
"Who even was that clown?"
"Giovanni. My head of security. I should bill you for his treatment. He said you nearly shattered his knee."
"Your head of security?" she repeated, amused, before a loud laugh escaped her.
She seemed to believe he’d stood no chance against her. She could be so naive sometimes. Sweet.
"Yes, I sincerely regret the mishap. I meant to shatter it," she added smugly.
For a moment, we just stared at each other in silence. She was the first to break it.
"Lovely stories you’ve told me," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "But you know what? I don’t give a fuck! Thatexcuses nothing—NOTHING! You don’t get to fuck me in my bed one night, in my apartment—which, by the way, you invited yourself into—only to leave me hanging the next day!"
Her fury shot through the room like fireworks, but I let her speak. "And then," she continued, her voice nearly breaking, "you couldn’t even spare a single fucking message? Not one! But now, here, when I wasn’t even in the city, you somehow managed to contact me right away."
I watched her—her chest rising and falling rapidly, blood pulsing beneath her flushed skin, her wrists still bound to the chair. She was a fury in shackles, a storm of defiance, rage, and wounded pride—and that made her irresistible.
"And how deranged is it," she went on, "to have Carter intercepted by one of your lackeys just to get to me? Do you think that’s normal?" Would she ever finish her tirade?
I leaned forward slightly. Sharp and cutting, I interrupted her: "Do you even know why you're here?"
No answer. Just a defiant glare—yet she hesitated a fraction too long.
"I asked you a question, Fiona," I repeated, quieter this time but all the more deliberate. "Answer."
"It's my vacation with Carter," she finally said with feigned confidence. "Who, by the way, has fucked me more in the last three weeks than you ever have."
Did she still think she could lie to me? "And? How was he?" I leaned closer. "Did he push you until your body forgot how to say no? Did he spread your legs and take you so hard you forgot your own name?" I lowered my voice until it was nearly a whisper. "Did he grab you by the hair, shove your pretty face down while you begged him not to stop?" I let the words sink in. Her lips pressed together, her eyes glittered—but I saw it, that faint flicker of arousal beneath the fury. I leaned in even closer. "Did he fuck you so hard your voice broke? Until you sobbed becauseyou didn’t know if you could take it—or if you ever wanted him to stop?"
I watched her breathing shift. Exactly what I wanted. Slowly, I bent nearer to her ear. "How many times did you crave my hand on your neck—holding you exactly where I wanted you?" I saw the subtle tension in her thighs. The way her breath hitched.
How her body was already answering me—even though she hadn’t made a single sound. "Or did he just pet you, Fiona?" I murmured—with just the right amount of contempt to make her snap. I wanted every tremor. Every reaction. Because I knew it wasn’t Carter she thought about when she closed her eyes at night.
She jerked forward, her eyes wild, her voice pure fury: "I hate you!"
Inside, I grinned. That was her "I want you," wrapped in venom and defiance. It was a dance of hatred, attraction, and all the boiling emotions hanging between us like a storm.
"So, why are you here in beautiful Florence?" I challenged again.
She stared at me, her brow furrowing slightly, but she remained stubbornly silent.
"Vacation, hm?" I repeated mockingly. "What did he promise you? Romantic sunsets in Rome? History and art here in Florence? A wine tasting in Tuscany?"
"Shut your mouth!" she spat.
Judging by her reaction, I was already close to the truth.
"Carter’s reliable, isn’t he? Too bad that’s not even close to the truth."
Her face froze, and I watched the words slowly seep in. She blinked, as if making sure she’d heard me right before exhaling sharply. "What the hell does that mean?" she hissed.
I tilted my head, studying her with undisguised satisfaction. "Exactly what I said. Carter chose this ‘vacation spot’ verystrategically. He’s meeting the Russians here to save his failing company. Did you really not know?" Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Carter was supposed to meet the Russians in Miami. But the fool was no match for them, so I’d arranged for the meeting to take place here, in my city. Because if—no, when—things escalated, I needed Fiona protected.
