11. Venetia
“ F uck him and fuck this plan,” I mutter, crumpling the paper with the speech my dad gave me in my trembling hand.
He tries to stop me, shielding me with his body as if he’s afraid someone will see how composed Venetia Ross is about to lose it. But I’m done with this. I’ve already waited twenty minutes for my idiot fiancé. According to the brilliant plan our parents devised, the first step of the campaign is to deliver a scripted speech to the crowd. Everyone has been waiting for us, and each person there knows we’re supposed to come together. It was my job to flood my social media with posts about how excited we both are to share some news—I’m the one with a massive media following, while West prefers to lurk in the shadows.
I’ve done all the work, and he has the nerve to be fucking late. I don’t know where he is, and honestly, I don’t give a shit. After all, I’ve been handling my responsibilities alone this entire time, so it won’t hurt to do it again today. It’ll be his problem to figure out what to say when I appear alone.
“I’m going alone, and I don’t need this,” I snap, tossing the crumpled paper into the trash can before turning toward the exit.
But in the next moment, my arm is caught in Dad’s grasp, his grip painfully tightening. A sharp hiss escapes me as the ache of an upcoming bruise fuels my growing irritation.
“You calm down right fucking now, or I’m done being nice, Venetia,” he spits through clenched teeth, forcefully pulling me closer. “I’ve had enough of your antics. You’ve been giving me a headache the entire drive here, and now, just seconds before you speak in front of a huge crowd, you’re acting even worse.”
Maybe it’s because you’re forcing me to do something that fills me with nothing but disgust. Or maybe it’s because my Xanax has stopped working now that West is involved. I don’t feel calmer—it’s the opposite. I’m ready to scream and stomp like a child because I’m so furious.
This isn’t me. It doesn’t feel right. The funniest part is that this is just the beginning, and I’m already fed up. I have no idea how I’ll survive.
“Let me go,” I say, trying to wrench my hand free, but it’s pointless. He tightens his grip even more, and I squeal, despair clawing at my throat. “Dad!”
“Stop it, Venetia, or I swear I’ll?—”
“What? You’re going to hit me?” I challenge, not realizing I’ve crossed the line. “Go ahead. Then everyone will finally see what kind of father you really are.”
The world falls silent the moment the words leave my mouth, and it feels like a heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders. My mouth drops open, eyes widening in shock as I blink at him, realizing I’ve just talked back to my dad. More so, I’ve hit a nerve. There’s a subtle darkness in his eyes and a frown that takes over his face as he begins to process what just happened.
When he finally releases my hand, I stifle a groan of relief, feeling pleasure flood the bruised area. Taking advantage of the moment, I storm past him, driven by the lingering fear that he might regain his senses and catch up with me. It’s probably not the best idea to face the crowd so soon after this encounter with him, but I can’t bear to spend another minute in his presence.
I kick my boot against the surface to slam the door open, and harsh daylight pierces my vision. Squinting, I raise a hand to shield my eyes, savoring a brief moment of peace. Something must’ve shifted in the universe—there’s no way I would confront my dad like that on a normal day. It feels strange, like I’ve embarked on a true rebellion against him—even though I know that when I see him again, I’ll mumble an apology and promise it won’t happen again.
But I won’t lie—it feels exhilarating to indulge in a bit of fantasy.
I try to set aside my nagging thoughts as I make my way toward the stage—though calling it a ‘stage’ seems dramatic for the small platform where I’ll perform, set in the middle of the park with a crowd gathered behind a fence.
The mix of cheerful screams pulls me out of my thoughts, leaving them to scatter into thin air. A smile spreads across my face—one that’s perfectly crafted, a performance accessory. I wave at them as I approach the microphone, savoring the increasing chorus of their excitement.
No matter how much I dislike wearing this fake persona, I can’t deny the satisfaction the attention sometimes brings me. I love being the main star. It was daunting when I first started, but over time, I’ve grown accustomed to it, confident that I won’t do anything to tarnish my image.
I halt before the mic and lean in closer. “How’s everyone feeling today?” I ask, injecting cheerfulness into my voice. A mixture of voices fills the air, each with the same predictable answer, and I nod, keeping a smile fixed on my face.
“Where’s West?” a guy shouts, his question triggering a wave of discomfort in me. Does it really matter? I’m here, and I’m taking care of business. It’s irritating that, with me standing before them, some still manage to think about fucking West.
“He’s—”
I’m cut off, along with the crowd, when the roar of an engine ripples through the space. Everyone looks behind me, and I automatically do the same, surprise etching itself across my features. Smoothly, he speeds closer, the loud sound of his bike making the muscle under my eye twitch.
I fucking hate bikes. They’re loud, dangerous, and just plain annoying. And the funniest part is that he knows that.
Fucking asshole.
West drives impossibly closer, parking just an inch beside me. The wind from his sudden stop sends my hair flying to the side, tangling it in my sticky lip gloss. I clench my teeth, trying to maintain the remnants of my smile, no matter how difficult it is. Slowly, I reach up to unstick my hair from my lips, annoyance flaring up inside me like a boiling kettle as I take a few steps aside, as if it’ll prevent what has already happened.
I remember he owns a bike, but he hardly ever uses it, opting for cars instead. His decision to appear this way demonstrates how much he enjoys getting under my fucking skin.
He takes off his helmet, revealing a messy tangle of slightly damp hair, earning applause and whistles from the crowd, who have completely forgotten about me. Today, he strays from his usual look, trading his standard black suit for a vintage leather jacket. It’s almost as if he’s out to remind everyone of his real sense of style. People joke that he was born in that suit, but in truth, he has a remarkable eye for fashion. I’ve seen him in vintage pieces like this a few times, and, as much as I hate him, I can’t deny that the fucker knows how to dress.
“Oh, no, no, no,” he taunts, flashing a satisfied smile as he surveys the crowd, clearly reveling in their reaction. “You guys, I’m so sorry you had to wait?—”
He can’t even finish his sentence; the screams grow louder, drowning him out as he hops off his bike and strides toward me. His eyes stay glued to them as he waves, and my body stiffens when he stands beside me—definitely closer than he needs to. I swallow hard, the confidence I had just moments ago evaporating without a trace.
He sucks all the oxygen from my lungs when he wraps one hand around my shoulders, his fingers encircling the spot where Dad had squeezed me a couple of minutes ago. I close my eyes, bracing for more pain, but instead, he brushes his fingers lightly over my arm—a tender gesture that sends a ripple up my spine.
“You are our he-roes!” someone screams, drawing out the last word for emphasis. “Fucking legends!”
West points at the person who yelled, staying well clear of the mic. “ You are the real legends,” he shouts back, his wide smile never leaving his face.
He bends slightly to lean closer to me, but we’re still not eye to eye. We never will be. I’m usually indifferent to his height, but not now. Right now, he feels fucking threatening, and it spreads an unusual warmth through my core.
“Fucking cocksuckers,” he whispers, just loud enough for me to hear. The words sound strange coming from him, with that smile still plastered on his face.
I bite my upper lip to suppress a smile and a giggle that threatens to spill out. It almost makes me feel sorry for these clueless idiots. “I’ve been here for some time,” I say, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably. My voice wavers for some unknown reason, and the corners of my lips keep twitching upward.
West turns to me, scanning my face as if we’re alone in a crowded space. I’m frozen, unable to blink while he studies me, his expression unreadable. “Oh, yeah?” he asks, the nonchalance in his tone palpable. “But that didn’t kill you, did it?”
Disappointment immediately replaces my amusement, and as soon as his hand leaves my shoulder, I glance down, a prickle of something unfamiliar slicing through me. He almost made me believe he could be different.
He takes the mic from its stand and starts speaking, but I’m beyond hearing him. My chest rises and falls with heavy breaths as I blink a few times, trying to ground myself. He always manages to provoke this reaction in me—a reaction I’ll never fully understand. It feels like I’m losing the game whenever he’s around.
“As an heir to a legacy in real estate, I’ve always known that our work extends beyond just constructing buildings. It’s about fostering communities, creating opportunities, and, above all, demonstrating leadership. No one embodies that philosophy better than our CEO—” He pauses for dramatic effect. “My father, Lucas Reyes. He has led this company for over thirty years, transforming it from a regional player into a national powerhouse?—”
I have to hand it to him—he’s fucking good. The way he talks about his father makes it seem like he genuinely admires him. But it doesn’t take a genius to see through their relationship. Our frequent meetings have revealed everything I need to know.
In truth, he hates him. I don’t know why, nor do I care. But the passion with which he speaks, his body language, the gleam in his eyes, and the slight crack in his voice—all of it convinces everyone that he loves him.
Impressive, I’ll admit. So impressive that it completely steals the spotlight from me. I scan the crowd, noting how every gaze is fixed on him—not on me.
They look like they’re hypnotized, and maybe they truly are. The men are interested in the business he blabbers about, while the women—most of them—seem ready to drop to their knees right here and worship him. I’m not exaggerating; I can practically see drool spilling from their mouths as they gaze up at him.
Of course. It’s not just any man; it’s West Reyes—a mysterious rich man everyone wants to jump on.
It annoys me, but it also reveals something important. The whole purpose of our gathering today is to deliver this speech together and draw attention to the campaign we’re launching. I was prepared to change the narrative, but he’s ruined everything. Right now, he’s sharing his own thoughts, completely ignoring my presence. I can only imagine how I must look standing beside him like a statue, unable to utter a word.
He thinks he’s clever, able to rewrite the rules as he pleases. But we mustn’t forget why we’re gathered in the first place. I couldn’t care less about his father’s accomplishments or the business he’s built over the years. Those thoughts are nothing more than background noise—noise I’m desperate to silence.
A surge of confidence washes over me, sparking an idea that takes root and blossoms like a flower in the sun. Our parents want the public to embrace the idea of us, along with the nonsense Lucas plans to serve them.
So now, I’m tempted to create the perfect fucking image.
Without considering the consequences, I step closer to him, narrowing the space between us. He continues speaking, his voice rising, emotions spilling onto his face as the sugar-coated lies pour from his lips. West doesn’t stop—not until my trembling hand reaches for his jawline. His eyes, usually so icy, snap to mine, now filled with confusion. I can sense the crowd’s attention shift to me— finally —and that gives me the last push.
Rising onto my tiptoes, I close my eyes and press my lips to his. Just a quick touch , I think. I don’t want to disgust myself more than necessary.
But I can’t pull back. I wait for him to do so, to jump back and make a joke out of the moment, to humiliate me like every other man in my life has done. I brace myself for that reaction, but it never comes. Nor does the disgust I was ready to feel. My knees weaken as he responds to the kiss, his lips attacking mine with a passion that feels almost surreal.
The crowd falls completely silent, and it seems like the entire world has collapsed around us, leaving only crumbled remnants behind. His hand slips around my waist, pulling me closer, and I lose the last shred of my sanity. People erupt into loud, frenzied cheers, with whistles and screams that make me flinch. He tightens his grip on my waist, his tongue prying my mouth open and wrapping around mine, kissing me with such force and desire as if it’s something he’s been dreaming of for years.
An electric jolt courses through my body, and I grow tired of standing on my tiptoes like a complete idiot. I try to retreat, to pull my lips away, but he won’t let me go. Instead, he intensifies the kiss, ravaging my senses and teasing my skin with his teeth, as if he’s determined to consume me alive.
A strangled whimper rips from my throat, muffled by his mouth. My lungs constrict painfully, as if an unseen force is squeezing the air from them, leaving me breathless.
It feels like he’s draining the life out of me.
I press my hand against his chest, attempting to push him away, but he clings to me as if I’m his only lifeline, selfishly swallowing everything I have.
Seconds, minutes, or hours pass, and the crowd goes completely wild—I can hear the sound of people hitting the metallic fence that separates us from them. As terrifying as it is to imagine so many people breaking free and rushing toward us, I’d welcome anything right now to pull me away from him.
His other hand moves to my throat, but he realizes that we’re in public and quickly shifts it up through my hair, keeping me anchored. The tiny electric sparks between us erupt into a high-voltage explosion as our two universes collide.
I can feel bruises forming on my lips, warmth pooling between my legs, wetness seeping out and thickening with every brush of his tongue against mine, every soft hum that vibrates in his throat.
Desire, hunger, and an overwhelming urge to grind against him swirl within me, pulling me deeper into a blissful vortex.
It feels too warm. Too good . Too much.
“ West ,” I manage to mumble, clinging to the faint thread of control I had a moment ago. I’m on the verge of tears, and I don’t even know why. Maybe it’s simply because what he does to me feels like the best thing I’ve ever experienced, even though I know I should feel repulsed. “S-stop?—”
Suddenly, he pulls back, and for some inexplicable reason, my mouth chases his, as if I’m subconsciously asking for more. It doesn’t take long for the reality of my actions to sink in. Shame floods my cheeks, and my eyes widen like discs as I glance up at him, still feeling the warmth of his large hand resting on my waist.
A devilish smirk spreads across his lips—a look that says he knows he’s won the game. And it makes me realize that I know something too.
I know that I’m completely fucked.