22. Venetia
T he sun’s golden rays caress the veranda, bathing the space in warmth and adding to the eternal atmosphere. Surprisingly, there’s no one else around, giving us the chance to fully savor it. Not that we care much right now. We’re both starving, our eyes glued to the menu before us.
A gust of morning wind whips past, making me shiver as goosebumps rise on my bare shoulders. Fuck this dress with its cuts. I knew I should’ve grabbed my blazer, but I was so preoccupied with West’s behavior that I completely forgot.
When he raises his hand to signal the waiter, my mind spins with confusion. “I haven’t decided yet?—”
He cuts me off by shaking his head at me, and I watch in silence as the waiter approaches, a wide, practiced smile on his face. “Get a blanket for my lady, please,” West says, nearly causing me to choke on my breath.
My lady?
“Will bring it right away,” the waiter replies before turning on his heel and heading back inside.
“How did you—” I trail off, unsure which question to ask first. How did he know I was cold? Or why did he call me his lady?
“You’re shaking like a leaf,” he states casually. “I’m not fucking blind, Venetia.”
He tries to project his usual self—full of arrogance and cockiness that makes me want to slap him—but right now, it amuses me more than it annoys me.
“Thanks,” I reply, slapping the menu down on the wooden table. “Very thoughtful of you.”
He ignores me, and though he wears those huge sunglasses, I can feel his gaze on me. I want to shift my attention to our surroundings—the beautiful landscapes framing the restaurant—anything to distract myself. But I can’t, because he occupies the entire space. He sits opposite me, one arm draped over the back of his seat, a smirk playing on his lips, and I know— I fucking know —he’s reliving the memory of last night.
Dozens of unoccupied tables surround us, plenty of space to move, yet I feel like wherever I go, his gaze will pierce right through me. He’s everywhere, with the sole purpose of draining the life out of me. He doesn’t even need to say a word, his presence is powerful enough.
Just as I feel like I’m about to explode, the waiter returns. Mumbling a “Thank you,” I reach for the blanket in his hands, but he pulls it back, unfolding it and gently wrapping it around my shoulders instead.
I avoid looking at West, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch the hard intake of his breath and feel the tension coiling in his body. I bite my lower lip to suppress the smirk threatening to break across my face.
“That’s enough,” he barks, waving a hand at the poor waiter, who flinches at the command. “Stop fucking touching her. She can rearrange it however she wants.”
“Oh, I was just?—”
“I don’t care what you ‘were ,’” he interrupts, his tone mimicking the waiter’s, his hands flying around to express his irritation. “Hands off her.”
“Stop being a caveman,” I say, my voice dangerously soft as I look up at the bewildered guy. “Can I get a carbonara, please?”
He swallows hard, licking his lips as his eyes flick between me and West, who’s now drilling me with his gaze. “S-sure. Is that all?”
“I’ll have a steak,” the asshole says. “Whatever it’s called here. And get my lady a chocolate fondant for dessert.”
I’m left speechless as I watch the waiter disappear into the building, my smirk fading entirely. Silence falls heavily between us, and I hesitate to turn my gaze back to him.
“How the fuck do you know that?” I ask, my tone dripping with defiance when I finally muster the courage to utter the words.
“Know what?”
Anger flickers to life inside me, and as I fidget in my seat, a strange, comforting warmth spreads through my body. “Don’t play dumb, West. How the fuck do you know what my favorite dessert is?”
He groans, exasperated. “You act like we’re seeing each other for the first time, Venetia. You order this stuff all the time.”
We’ve been to diners before—nothing like this, obviously. Those were business meetings with our dads and sometimes other important business sharks.
But I didn’t realize he had memorized what I ordered. “I only get it when I’m having one meal,” I correct. “I won’t be eating it now.”
“Why not?”
Because it’s inappropriate to have such a big appetite. A lady would always decline dessert. “I don’t… usually eat this much.”
“Usually,” he repeats, drawing out the word in a mocking tone. “But this morning, you will.”
Huffing in irritation, I slump back in my seat, folding my arms across my chest. I force myself to look away from him, focusing instead on the trees and bushes surrounding us.
What an arrogant prick.
“You had no right to attack the waiter,” I say through clenched teeth. “He was just doing his job?—”
“Oh, was he?” he taunts, lowering his voice. The fucking attitude oozing from him is something that needs to be studied. “Believe me, I can tell the difference between right and wrong. And when I say he was doing too much, trust me, he was doing too fucking much, Venetia.”
I roll my eyes, realizing I’ve reached a dead end. “You’re giving me a headache.”
“Then don’t talk to me.”
“Stop looking at me.”
A low, mocking laugh rumbles from his chest. “How do you know I’m looking at you, huh?”
“Oh, those glasses don’t hide anything. I can feel your eyes on me.”
“You were using my fingers to get yourself off tonight. I think I deserve to look at you a little, don’t I?”
My mouth snaps shut immediately. Eyes dropping, I chew on the corner of my lip, silently praying for a waiter to come back. I need to eat, I need to drink, I need to do something to escape this man. He’s going to be the end of me.
“Look at you being shy.” His voice drips with seduction, sending a warm wave that grips my core. I clench my thighs, pressing a hand between them under the table, and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the feeling from growing. “Adorable.”
Let him talk to himself like the madman he is. I won’t take the bait.
Thank God, because just then, the waiter returns with a plate in hand. With an awkward smile, he sets down my carbonara. “The steak and the dessert will be right in a?—”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” West interrupts, reverting to his caveman persona. I can’t decide which version of him I dislike more—this one or the overly horny version.
“West!” I turn to the waiter, offering him a smile. “Thank you so much. We’ll be waiting.”
The poor guy nods and quickly retreats, while West leans in just as I prepare to focus on my meal. “I love it when you say my name like that,” he murmurs. “All angry and unyielding. It turns me on.”
Unimpressed, I twirl the creamy noodles around my fork and bring the hot food to my mouth. “Go jack off in the bathroom. I’m tired of your horny bullshit.”
“Oh, if you only knew,” he replies smugly. “I already did it once.”
Did he just admit he jerked off while thinking of me?
“Can you tell me who will be at the networking reception today?” I ask, swiftly changing the subject. I don’t want him to think I’m interested in whatever that was. Plus, I’m desperate to know whom I’ll have to tolerate tonight. “I need to be prepared.”
He sighs in frustration and sinks back into his chair. “Lots of idiots. I don’t remember half of them myself. One of the brokers is friends with Elijah Williams,” he adds with a laugh. “With that fucking moron, the night is bound to be fun.”
I swallow my food, my eyes widening in astonishment. Elijah Williams is a famous actor whose new film is set to premiere here in just a few days. “No way. His new movie?—”
“A piece of shit,” he cuts in, waving his hand dismissively. “Midnight fucking Massacre. Some comedy filled with paranormal nonsense.”
Yeah, the premise doesn’t sound promising, and neither does the title. “I saw one of his interviews,” I muse, wrapping more noodles around my fork. They taste like heaven. “He keeps saying it was the best experience of his life, the best movie he’s ever filmed.”
“Yeah. The dude has fucking Stockholm syndrome from that movie,” he responds bluntly, and I burst into laughter, choking on a piece of food. “What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, which only makes me laugh harder.
I cover my mouth, trying to suppress the embarrassment while I struggle to swallow. After a moment, I finally manage to do it, a wide smile never disappearing from my face. “Oh, God. This is hilarious.”
He pauses, clearly not convinced by my explanation. “Stockholm syndrome is hilarious to you?” he asks, attempting to sound annoyed, but I can hear a hint of amusement in his voice.
The way he imposes it is funny to me.
The moment I want to open my mouth, the waiter brings him his food, along with my dessert. A strange sensation sweeps through me as I realize we’re one step closer to the end of this breakfast. This moment, pleasant and carefree as it is, will evaporate as soon as we focus on our food, and then we’ll return to pretending and doing whatever our parents expect of us.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about this right now. Why am I even thinking about it at all?
I reach for the glass bottle of water across the table, leaning in slightly to grab it. The attempt proves futile, so I scoot closer to the edge of my seat. West notices my struggle and pushes the bottle closer to me. Our fingers brush, and an electric thrill races across my skin the moment it happens. I whip my eyes to his, neither of us pulling our hands back.
Butterflies awaken from their slumber, their wings fluttering against my ribcage as they make their way up to my throat. A knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach, and I awkwardly clear my throat, being the first to withdraw my hand.
A loud camera click from nearby distracts us, and I’m both grateful for and irritated by the paparazzi lurking just across the restaurant fence.
“These fucking idiots with their cameras,” West grumbles, narrowing his eyes at the stubborn man who keeps snapping pictures of us. “Maybe I need to teach him a lesson.”
“Don’t,” I blurt out in a rush. The thought of him causing a scene over a few photos feels overwhelmingly daunting. “Just… eat. Ignore him. It’s good for them to see us like this, remember?”
He shifts his attention back to me, and I lower my head, rummaging through my purse. I fumble for my compact mirror and pull it out, checking my half-swollen face. Yeah, the signs of my mental breakdown are hard to hide, even with makeup.
“Fuck. I forgot how red and swollen my face gets whenever I cry,” I mumble, smoothing out the creases of concealer under my eyes. “It’s like I have an allergy to tears. I can’t let that happen again.”
“What a fucking bullshit,” he says dismissively. “You look pretty now.” Raising my head, I look at him with a burning question in my eyes, but he only purses his lips in annoyance, his shoulders tensing with discomfort. “I don’t mean you need to cry to look pretty. You always look like that. I just mean—” He trails off, rubbing a hand across his face in frustration. “ Fuck . Fuck it. Let’s just eat.”
Yeah. That won’t erase the feelings his words stirred within me, but it’s an option nonetheless.
After completing all the work required of us, West and I decided to say fuck it and get wasted. The club we’re at is owned by one of the brokers we met with today, and we couldn’t resist his invitation. People like him love to stand out and brag about their parties, and tonight, we’re here to see just how good this place really is.
To add to the excitement, Elijah Williams—whom we’ve been talking about—is here now, lounging on the same couch with us. The heavy beat of the club music blasts through the speakers, and my intoxicated brain struggles to grasp what he’s saying. I’m sandwiched between him and West, throwing glances at my fiancé and silently asking if he understands this man’s ramblings.
Judging by his blank stare and that idiotic, out-of-place smirk, I gather he’s just as lost as I am.
Elijah scoots closer, the mix of his luxurious perfume and the alcohol he’s consumed creating a suffocating cloud around us. “You know, you should be a model,” he says into my ear, his dark eyes scanning my face. “You have all the qualities.”
I throw my head back against the couch, a drunken, carefree smile breaking across my face. If I were sober, he’d be annoying the hell out of me with his chatter, but right now, I can’t seem to mind at all. “You think so?”
He nods, narrowing his eyes at me. “You’re beautiful. Hasn’t your boyfriend ever told you that?”
My boyfriend uses more elaborate words to describe my looks, but Elijah doesn’t need to know that. This isn’t about having an adequate conversation—I’m drunk, and I want to have fun. “Maybe he has. But I love the way you say it. It sounds better,” I say, my tone shifting to a teasing, flirtatious note.
Even amidst the deep neon light illuminating his face, I can see the spark in his eyes—hopeful, na?ve, and lustful. “There are better ways to express that,” he says, glancing at West. “I want to show you. Think he would allow me, dollface?”
I slowly turn my head to West, who looks down at me with a challenging gleam in his eyes. He’s as drunk as I am, possibly even high, and I doubt he can think straight. Or maybe he can. Despite the haze, I can still sense the tension in his muscles, the way he watches me now.
Leaning in slightly, I ask, “Would you let him show me how beautiful I am, West?”
Like a predator savoring the sight of its prey, his tongue flicks out to moisten his lips. “You know what I think?” He cups the side of my face, his thumb tugging at the skin on my upper lip. The gesture ignites butterflies in my stomach, and I lean into his hand like a wilting flower searching for support.
Gradually, he tightens his grip, turning my face toward Elijah. “I think my beautiful girl can please us both.” Leaning closer, he lets his words skim across my cheek as he asks, “Can’t you, sweetheart?”
My heart knots at his words, the discomfort tightening around me as the trigger takes hold. I close my eyes, attempting to push away the memories that never fully come into focus—shards of the fog I’ve lived in for years. I recall fragments— voices, sensations that scraped across my skin—but I still can’t make sense of what occurred.
They’re not here. They’re not here. They’re not here.
When I open my eyes and see West, my teeth grind together, fury coursing through me. He knows nothing, yet he has the nerve to behave like this, acting as if he can say whatever the fuck he pleases.
This isn’t what I had planned. I intended to piss him off, to make him jealous, and, of course, he sensed it. He’s too smart for his own good, and now he’s changed the rules of our game, forcing me into a position where I have to lose.
But I don’t lose.
He needs to be taught a lesson because his words fucking triggered me, and I’ve spent so long trying to bury those memories deep within.
“I can,” I agree, summoning every ounce of strength to break free from his grip and press my lips to his. I hear Elijah chuckling too close to my ear, mumbling something irrelevant.
He doesn’t matter. But I’ll make West believe he does.
West’s hands slide down to grasp my breasts, squeezing them together. The fabric of my dress rubs against my sensitive skin, sending a wave of pleasure through me, and I moan into his mouth, the sound intertwining with his tongue.
He tries to regain control, pulling me closer and sucking my lips before putting the skin between his teeth, marking me as his. I can feel his desire to punish me for flirting with Elijah and to assert his claim over me.
Fuck him. He won’t win this time.
Pulling my mouth away from his with a loud smack, I push him back onto the couch with both hands. He touches his lips, clearly astonished that I chose to kiss him again willingly.
Holding his gaze, I turn to Elijah, placing my hand on his jaw and pulling him closer. My mouth hovers just an inch above his, and I can feel West’s thoughts as he drills me with his eyes.
‘I fucking dare you.’
Well, it was his idea from the start.
I close my eyes and crash my lips against his, employing the techniques I learned over the years. I kiss him deeply, maintaining the right pace despite my distaste. He shoves his tongue deeper into my mouth, and I fight back the wave of revulsion that rises in my throat, keeping my eyes closed.
Only now do I realize how different West is from everyone I’ve ever kissed. Elijah fits the mold of every random man I’ve encountered over the years. It’s hard to feel anything with him. Sure, I notice the tickling sensation of our tongues brushing and the warmth of his mouth against mine, but that’s it—no emotional impact, nothing significant.
A hand runs through my hair, and in an instant, I’m roughly pulled away from Elijah’s lips. West looms over me, shielding me from everyone else, his gaze intense and menacing as he studies my flushed face. “You little bitch. You think you can do whatever you want without consequences?”
“You wanted to share me.” I manage to put on a smirk, though I’m genuinely scared by the way he looks right now. I can feel his urge to snap and wreak havoc over my actions. “So share me, West. I’m enjoying the game you started.”
He grins, the sight igniting a fire deep in my stomach. “You’re driving me fucking mad, Netia. I’m going to kill you for this.”
When his mouth finds mine again, I dissociate, greedily soaking in the feeling that only he can provide. Every nerve in my body ignites, the sensation coursing from my toes up to my core, consuming me and transforming me into a volatile mess.
I wish I could kiss him forever. He tastes better than anything else I’ve ever tried, and our movements sync perfectly. We’re neither gentle nor rough, but he understands my signals better than anyone else ever has, and our rhythm feels perfect.
But I didn’t start this to indulge in physical pleasure. I need to win, and he has to learn once and for all that I’m not someone to be messed with.
Pulling back, I cup his face, surprised when he allows it without immediately chasing my lips again. My tongue darts out, licking the remnants of the bittersweet poison. The neon glow highlights his dusty freckles, shimmering in his sapphire eyes that blaze with desire. “Hey. I need you to trust me now. Okay?”
He glances between my lips and my eyes, torn between the urge to ravage my mouth and the desire to listen to me. “Uh—Okay?”
Fuck . There’s no going back from this.
I push him back, and he obediently sinks into his seat. Shifting my attention to Elijah, I notice he’s practically drooling, his mouth agape at the scene that just unfolded before him. The idiot looks like he’s never seen people kissing before.
Great. What I’m about to do is incredibly lame and embarrassing, but I need to see this through for my plan’s sake. I can’t let West cloud my thoughts and take control of my mind. I’ve allowed that once and paid dearly for it. I won’t let any man do that to me again.
I’m the one in control.
I lean closer to Elijah, my hand brushing the side of his neck as I whisper, “Get me out of here. Just the two of us.”
After a moment of hesitation, he lifts me into his arms and stands upright. I release a forced giggle as he turns and begins walking away, holding me close.
The last thing I see before we disappear into the crowd is West’s shocked face, the betrayal in his eyes, and the way his gaze follows the index finger I press to my lips, signaling him not to cause a scene.