Chapter Three
Tessa
WHAT’S THE WORST that could happen?
The words pound in my head as I lean against the glass balcony, staring at the city that sprawls like a jewel at twilight.
Lisbon’s tiled rooftops tumble in shades of terracotta and gold, the Tagus shimmering with the last rays of sunshine.
The hotel Theo chose for us to stay in is a monument to indulgence, with its marble floors, sweeping chandeliers and penthouse suites designed for decadence. Only the best of the best for an effortlessly powerful and affluent man used to the finest things in life.
I grimace against another rush of bitterness as Cilla’s voice returns to punctuate her philosophical answer to the question I’d posed in my not-at-all-but-maybe-frantic phone call to her, asking why the hell I’d agreed to this trip with Theo Biney.
At worst you’ll get a free all-expenses-paid vacation.
She doesn’t know the half of it. Doesn’t know that as much as this was framed within the boundaries of business—and I intend to strictly keep it as such or die trying—even before I’d set foot on the obscene luxury of the Biney private jet and allowed myself to be waited on hand and foot by the attendants, I’d known this would come at a cost.
The first being where I was.
Because the last time I stayed in a penthouse suite like this, four years ago, I walked out with more than shattered trust and a deeply-ingrained sense of shame over indulging in the wrong choices.
I walked out carrying Theo’s child.
I flinch. Because even now, the memory cuts sharper than I want it to.
The night had been heat and sex and the kind of fire I would’ve rolled my eyes at had I watched it onscreen, his arrogance colliding with my stubbornness until it burned into something neither of us could name.
But in the morning, when I glimpsed that message on his phone, everything collapsed. His dismissal of it, his careless cruelty—it hollowed me out. I walked away with nothing but my pride stitched thin around me.
Only to realise that was just the beginning.
Because then there’d come the missed period, the shock that our various forms of protection had spectacularly failed. Then the harrowing test. The heartbeat in my belly before there was one to hear. The faint despair and the real fear.
Then…surprisingly fragile, impossible, hope.
I press a hand to my abdomen now, flat beneath the linen of my dress, as if I can still feel the echo of that ephemeral hope. As if memory alone could alter the past.
No one knows what happened to me four years ago. Not my father nor Cilla nor Ashon.
Certainly not Theo. I curb a bitter laugh now as I recall his scathing, deathly silence in response to my text message. The one I knew he’d seen and read before he’d chosen searing rejection in ghosting me.
In hindsight, there’d turned out be a kernel of salvation in that callous dismissal. Because he’d proven in one swift, brutal act that every scrap of rumour and gossip about his Lothario ways were well-earned. That he was faithless, just like Giles.
And that’s how it will stay. I learned then that I cannot—must not—trust him with anything I value.
So I square my shoulders, inhale deeply and remind myself that this is work. Lisbon is about sketches and budgets and donor pitches. Nothing more.
I grab my clutch and jacket, the armour of professionalism, and head downstairs to the waiting car.
Tonight’s dinner is with his team of architects and two high-net-worth donors on neutral ground, safe territory. A public space where I can hold my composure without fear of slipping.
Except, when I slide into the sleek SUV and find Theo already inside, dark suit moulding to his frame, tie loose as if he owns the world and the night is his to command, my pulse betrays me all over again.
Theo
Violence has never been my style or a solution to a single thing in this life. But by the time the car glides down Avenida da Liberdade, I’m ready to crawl out of my skin. Or punch something.
And it’s entirely to do with the woman perched oh so perfectly, her cute nose in the air, beside me in the backseat.
Every line of Tessa’s body is a study in indifference.
The soft gold dress clings in all the right places but flows just enough to look effortless, a slit skimming high on one thigh when she crosses her legs.
Her earrings catch the streetlights, flashing like tiny knives.
She hasn’t looked at me once since we left the hotel and it’s driving me insane.
I’m used to women leaning in, laughing too loud at my dry remarks, angling for my attention.
Instead, I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours replaying the sight of Tessa’s hand trembling against my chest in the helicopter, the feel of her under me in that bed four years ago…
only to be met with her frost afterwards.
Half an hour ago, I was in an ice-cold shower, which ended up scalding as I threw in the towel and stroked myself to the memory of her eyes and her screams when she let me inside her tight sheath.
That I came like a schoolboy caught in the fresh throes of raging hormones was borderline pathetic.
Especially since I know she’s not as cool and composed as she’s feigning.
My patience snaps. ‘How long is this going to continue?’
Her gaze doesn’t waver from the window. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Sure you do. This silent treatment, Tessa.’ My voice is harsher than I intend. ‘It’s getting old.’
‘I’m sorry if you’re disappointed,’ she says coolly, finally deigning to glance at me. ‘Did you expect me to fawn over you like everyone else does? I’m sure all it’ll take is a text message to have your fan club assembled.’
My teeth grind. I lean in, lower my voice so it cuts through the hum of the engine. Something jars in those words. Hard. But I can’t quite put my finger on it. And yes, it intensifies my frustration. ‘Something is going on here. Beneath the surface.’
For one flicker of a second, her composure cracks and panic darts across her face. Then she waves me away with a perfectly manicured hand. ‘You’re imagining things, Theo.’
‘I don’t imagine,’ I grit out, abstractedly noting the spike of elation at hearing my name fall from her lips.
‘Then perhaps you should start with the concept that the world doesn’t revolve around you.’
The driver pulls up to the restaurant before I can retort. She slides out first, all long legs and supple hips and glacial grace, leaving me to follow with my jaw clenched and my blood running hot.
Inside, the table is set for six, my architects already waiting, along with two high-net-worth donors with connections Tessa managed to land in an impressive cultural exchange programme for when Obibini Studios is up and running.
Two birds, one stone, she’d reminded me coolly when I expressed surprise at the additional dinner guests.
Now she glides into the role of hostess with disarming ease.
Her smile, polished, warm and inclusive, has all four men leaning forward, captivated. She asks intelligent questions about their philanthropic interests, weaving in her vision for cultural programming as if it’s their idea. Her laughter light but never frivolous.
And me? It’s unnerving and downright novel. In any other circumstance, I probably would’ve found great amusement in the fact that as far as anyone here is concerned, I might as well be furniture.
She barely looks at me and when she does, it’s to pose a question she barely acknowledges before she’s on to her next cogent conversation piece.
In a word, she dazzles the donors. And when my lead architect references my design philosophy, she skilfully pivots the conversation back to her own agenda.
Every time she ignores me, it feels deliberate, a scalpel sliding under my skin.
By the main course, I’m seething.
By dessert, I can’t take another second.
And even as I accept that there’s more going on here, that the main fuel propelling my mood is the unsullied, green-eyed jealousy of how she’s lavishing every man at the table with her attention but me, I’m pushing back my chair.
‘Gentlemen, thank you for your time. We’ll follow up next week with the drafts. ’
One of the donors blinks. ‘But we haven’t—’
‘We’re finished for tonight.’ My tone brooks no argument.
Beside me, Tessa bristles. ‘I haven’t had dessert yet.’
I look at her then, finally, letting my gaze linger just long enough to make the air between us burn. ‘We’ll order you something at the hotel,’ I say silkily. ‘I know what you like. It can be ready by the time we get back to our suite.’
Her nostrils flare at my bare-faced innuendo.
But also because for a heartbeat I see the memory hit her—the way I’d once coaxed her body apart, the sounds she made, the taste of her skin.
And yes, the dessert we ordered at midnight four years ago to replenish our depleted stamina before we fell on one another again.
She bolts upright, thanks the table with a too-bright smile and storms past me towards the exit.
By the time we’re back in the car, she’s practically vibrating with fury. And I’m already planning how to push her harder, how to strip away the walls she’s desperate to keep raised between us.
Because I know this much—the game has only just begun.
The suite smells of polished wood, citrus polish and her perfume. A heady mix that makes the place feel far more dangerous than any hotel should. We’ve each retreated to our halves, separated by the shared living room. It’s supposed to be neutral ground, but the tension clings like smoke.
I stretch out on the leather sofa, scrolling through the dessert menu on the tablet, half-bored, half-hunting for another excuse to needle her.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her pace in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, gold dress flashing with every angry stride, her headwrap now loosened, hair tumbling around her shoulders.
She looks incandescent, arresting and deeply alluring like this—angry, untouchable, sexy enough to gut a man. I feel myself hardening once more just clocking her presence.