Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
She continues, her voice gaining strength with each word. “If you think I can be forced into submission with a few harsh words, Mr. Bavga, you have no idea who I am and what I’ve been through. You don’t scare me. I’m here for the money. And even if throwing this trump card down gives you new ideas on how to make me surrender and walk away, you’ll still lose. Because if I walk away, that will be my choice too.”
I stare at her, reassessing everything I thought I knew. The woman before me—half-dressed, my release still marking her thighs—isn’t cowering or breaking. She’s calculating. Maneuvering.
I turn away, fury burning through my veins. The sex was a mistake. A tactical error. I crossed a line I never intended to cross, and she’s weaponizing it already.
I grab swim trunks from a drawer and yank them on, my back to her. The sound of her bare feet padding across the floor toward the bathroom makes me pivot and catch her arm with one hand.
Her skin is warm, pulse jumping beneath my fingers. With my other hand, I shove her toward the front door. Not hard enough to hurt her, but enough to make my point. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She knows that I know exactly where she’s going. But she sets her jaw and stares up at me, silent, with that same infuriating defiance.
“Oh, no,” I say, letting my gaze burn into hers. “You don’t get to clean up like some dainty lady, Emmaleen. You’re dirty now. Get used to it. You wanted to be my arm candy at Rico’s party? This is what that means. You wear what I tell you to wear. You smell like what I tell you to smell like. And right now, you smell like I just fucked you against the door.”
I push her again. She stumbles slightly but catches herself. I see calculations running behind those green eyes—the money, the humiliation, the danger of Rico. She’s playing every angle.
“You think this is a game you can win,” I continue, circling her like a shark. “You think you’ve got leverage now because we fucked. Because I lost control for five minutes.”
I stop directly in front of her, close enough that I can see her pupils dilate.
“Let me be clear. You don’t have leverage. You have six demerits and a one-week contract that I can terminate at any time. What you just witnessed? That was a momentary lapse in judgment. It won’t happen again.”
The lie tastes acidic on my tongue.
We both know it will happen again.
The question is when, and who will be in control when it does.
“Welcome to the fucking party, Little Miss Take.” My voice drops to a dangerous register. “If you think I’ll just hand you thirty-one thousand dollars because you’re clever and cute, you’ve grossly underestimated my gameplay. Let’s go.”
18
There’s only one rule in my life now: don’t flinch. Not when you’re sticky with someone else’s power and about to walk into a party full of wolves.
Giovanni takes my hand as we exit the pool house, his grip possessive rather than affectionate. His fingers are warm and steady, while mine probably feel like I’m conducting electricity. Which, honestly, I might be. My body is still humming from what just happened—still processing the way he lifted me against that door like I weighed nothing, the way his mouth claimed mine, the way I responded like my body had been waiting for him specifically.
God, what is wrong with me? Stockholm syndrome doesn’t usually kick in this fast, does it?
But it wasn’t just the physical part that’s left me reeling. It was that moment—that single, disorienting moment—when he pushed my hair back from my face. His fingers against my cheek, so gentle it felt like a hallucination in the middle of all that aggression. That tenderness was more devastating than anything else he did to me.
Even when he got rougher, grabbing my hips hard enough to leave marks, I didn’t want him to stop. I’ve never felt anything like it—like being consumed and seen at the same time. Like being the only thing that matters in someone’s universe for five minutes.
And now we’re heading to a party where I’m supposed to be his property. Great. From metaphorical objectification to literal objectification. At least I’m getting the full misogyny experience package.
But I know what I said to him was true. Giovanni Bavga isn’t going to let anyone touch me. Even if he’s furious with me, even if he regrets what just happened between us—the man I just witnessed losing control doesn’t share. He’s not wired that way. His possessiveness radiates from him like heat.
We step into what can only be described as a botanical cathedral. A tunnel of wisteria arches over us, purple-blue blooms hanging in cascades that transform the evening light into something otherworldly. The fragrance is intoxicating—sweet but not cloying, like expensive perfume that knows exactly when to stop. The pathway beneath our feet crunches softly, and subtle lighting along the edges makes the whole thing glow like something from a fairy tale.