Chapter Twenty-One
Serena
“Where are we going?” I ask him, my nerves slipping into my voice before I can stop them.
I am not dressed badly. Not at all. But I am also not wearing some dramatic, backless gown meant to steal every gaze in the room.
Today I chose a tight, long matcha-green dress, elastic and unforgiving, clinging to my body like it knows exactly what it is doing.
I love the way my pregnant belly looks in this dress.
It is round, visible, impossible to ignore.
Almost six months pregnant now, and it definitely shows.
I paired it with my stiletto high heels because I plan on wearing high heels for as long as I possibly can. My long blonde hair falls in soft curls down my back, much longer than it used to be. Thicker. Heavier. I like it better this way. I have no intention of cutting it anytime soon.
After Lorenzo picked me up from the Moretti Grand Hotel, we went home briefly. He told me we were going out to dinner. When I asked about the dress code, he barely looked at me before saying, “You could wear a bin bag, love, and you’d still be the most beautiful woman in any room.”
I still do not know whether I wanted to kiss him or slap his beautiful face.
I chose to ignore the comment, even though my pulse jumped.
The way he calls me love feels too intimate, too close to something I am not ready to name.
I never call him by a nickname or pet name.
I say his name. He prefers it that way. He loves hearing his name from my mouth.
And if I am honest, I love saying it too.
I spent two hours on my makeup and another hour on my hair.
I am not ashamed to admit it. I look extremely hot.
No exaggeration. I might be the sexiest pregnant woman I have ever seen.
Most days I walk around exhausted, barely put together, looking like a homeless person.
That is about seventy percent of my time.
Pregnancy and constant fatigue are my excuse.
But tonight, I wanted to remind myself, and him, that when I try, I am unfairly attractive.
“We’re going to a restaurant,” he says, calm and unbothered.
Well. Obviously.
“I figured,” I mutter. “I didn’t think you would like to eat at McDonald’s in a smoking.”
He smirks. That infuriating, confident smirk that makes me want to wipe it off his face.
“Why not?” he says. “I love McDonald’s.”
That catches me off guard. I have never seen this man eat a burger in his life. “What do you like to eat from there?” I challenge him, convinced he does not even know what is on the menu.
“Usually, I order a double Big Tasty, twenty nuggets, one chicken wrap, probably a cheeseburger if I’m in the mood.” He pauses, then smiles again. “Oh, and I will one hundred percent order a McFlurry and a pie. I never skip their desserts.”
I stare at him, genuinely shocked. “Okay.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. He smiled earlier, which almost made my water break, and now he laughs. I am starting to think my body is not equipped to handle him.
“How long until we arrive?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation light. I cannot lie. I am nervous. If this is a date, it is the first time in months we are actually in a public place together.
“We’re almost there,” he says softly, like he can sense it.
“Am I dressed properly?” I ask, pretending I do not care about his opinion. Even though I absolutely do.
His gaze slides down my body slowly, deliberately. He drags his tongue over his teeth, and the gesture is small but devastating.
“All those clothes are unnecessary,” he murmurs. “I want you bare and covered in my cum.”
Heat floods my body instantly. My pussy reacts before my mind does. He needs to stop. Right now. I cannot take any more filthy words.
“I’m serious,” I hiss, trying to look unbothered. I fail.
“Well,” he continues, his eyes darkening as they linger on my dress, “taking into account how gorgeous you are, and how that dress molds into your curves like it’s begging me to rip it off, I just hope no one is stupid enough to test me tonight.” He winks.
He actually winks.
I blush, hating myself for it. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
He glances at me, something unreadable in his expression. “If you can take a compliment so well, love, I imagine you’ll manage the rest just fine.” His hand squeezes my thigh, slow and possessive, sending a shiver through me.
He parks the car and steps out, coming around to my side. As the gentleman he is, he opens my door and helps me outside, his hand steady at my waist.
And then we are at Deadlock.
I have heard about this place before. Everyone who exists even remotely close to power has. But seeing it in person is something else entirely.
Deadlock is not a building. It is a statement.
The manor rises in front of us like something torn out of another century, vast and imposing, its Victorian architecture carved in stone and symmetry.
Towers stretch toward the sky, crowned with ornate details and gilded accents that catch the fading light.
Tall arched windows stare down like watchful eyes, and the massive iron gates stand open just long enough to let us in, before closing behind us with a finality that makes my stomach tighten.
This place does not welcome people. It allows them.
Everything about it screams old money. The kind that does not need to announce itself.
The kind that survived wars, scandals, bloodlines.
The kind that owns countries without appearing on maps.
It is beautiful in a way that feels dangerous, like admiring a predator that has no intention of hiding its teeth.
“This place is. . .” I trail off, still staring at the facade.
Deadlock looks like a palace built for kings who never needed crowns.
It is Victorian at its core, heavy stone, carved pillars, towering spires, but there is something modern threaded through it.
Clean lines where there should be excess.
Glass worked seamlessly into ancient stone.
Technology hidden so well you only feel its presence, never see it.
A perfect blend of past and present, tradition and control.
“Are you a member?” I ask, still stunned.
“My family is one of the founders,” Lorenzo answers calmly.
Of course they are.
As we walk toward the entrance, the gravel crunches beneath our feet, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the silence surrounding the manor.
Two men in black suits stand at the door, earpieces discreet, posture rigid.
They do not ask for names. They do not check lists.
One look at Lorenzo is enough. They step aside without a word.
Inside, I forget how to breathe.
The interior is darker than I expected, wrapped in shadow and warm amber light.
High ceilings stretch above us, decorated with intricate moldings and chandeliers that hang like jeweled spiders, their light softened to a glow that flatters everything it touches.
Dark wood lines the walls, polished to perfection, interrupted by velvet drapes and oil paintings of men who look powerful enough to have rewritten history.
The air smells like expensive cologne, aged whiskey, leather, and something sharper underneath. Power. Secrets. Money soaked in blood and inked into contracts.
Everyone inside is dressed impeccably. Tailored suits.
Crisp shirts. Polished shoes. No loud colors.
No excess. These are men who know exactly who they are and what they own.
Conversations are low, controlled, murmured behind glasses of dark liquor.
Laughter, when it happens, is quiet and deliberate.
I notice immediately that women are rare here. Very rare. And when they are present, they are not decoration. They are seated beside men who command rooms. Women who belong because they are chosen, not invited.
Eyes turn as we enter.
Some linger on Lorenzo with recognition. Respect. Calculation. Others flick briefly to me, taking in my belly, my dress, my place at his side. I feel it then, the unspoken question. Who is she to stand there with him?
Lorenzo’s hand settles at my lower back, firm and possessive, guiding me forward like he owns the space. Like he owns me. And in this place, I believe he might.
We pass a private bar carved from dark wood and marble, shelves lined with bottles older than most of the men drinking them.
Beyond that, I glimpse heavy doors leading to rooms I am certain are not meant for dining alone.
Rooms where decisions are made quietly. Where lives are traded as casually as currency.
As we pass through the massive double doors, the noise of the club fades into something softer, heavier. What opens in front of us is not just a restaurant. It is a stage.
The room takes my breath away.
The ceiling soars high above us, ornate and white, carved with intricate detailing that feels almost sacred.
Crystal chandeliers cascade downward like frozen rain, hundreds of glass droplets catching the light and scattering it across the room in soft, shimmering reflections.
Everything glows. Not brightly, not harshly.
It is a controlled, deliberate glow, meant to flatter, to seduce, to intimidate.
Tall white columns line the space, elegant and imposing, framing arched windows that stretch from floor to ceiling.
Beyond the glass, the night presses close, but in here time feels suspended.
The color palette is restrained. Ivory, pearl, silver, muted gold.
Plush carpets swallow the sound of footsteps.
Chairs are sculptural, modern yet curved, upholstered in pale fabric that looks too pristine to be real.
At the center of the room, polished metallic structures reflect the chandeliers above, mirroring the luxury back at itself like a quiet act of vanity.
As we walk in, I feel it before I consciously register it.
Eyes.