Chapter 10
Sean
The silence inside the extra penthouse suite was absolute, oppressive, and heavy with the weight of everything that was about to happen.
Sean stood perfectly still before the massive, floor-to-ceiling glass windows, a glass of untouched scotch in his hand.
Below him, the dark, churning waves of the ocean continuously slammed against the jagged cliffs, a violent rhythm that perfectly matched the frantic, unfamiliar hammering of his own heart.
A dark, suffocating knot of anxiety tightened in his chest, pulling his muscles taut.
He was a man who commanded boardrooms, manipulated markets, and dictated the flow of billions of dollars.
He was never out of control. But standing in the dark, meticulously prepared suite, he felt entirely powerless.
She hasn’t come, the dark thought whispered in the back of his mind.
She couldn’t do it. He pictured Rosália sitting alone in the dark of her own hotel room, paralyzed by the sheer, devastating reality of her husband’s betrayal.
What if she had given up? What if the pain of confronting it was simply too much, and she had chosen the agonizing safety of the blankets over the terrifying leap into their revenge?
The thought of her crying alone, while David was out dirtying his hands with Katherine, made a lethal, burning rage flare in Sean’s blood.
He set the crystal glass down on the marble bar with a sharp, echoing clink. He reached into his pocket for his phone, entirely prepared to march down the hall and break David’s door off its hinges to get to her.
Just as his thumb hit the screen, the distinct, electronic click of the heavy suite door shattered the silence of the foyer.
Sean spun around, the breath leaving his lungs in a long, ragged sigh of absolute, profound relief.
The heavy mahogany door opened, and Rosália slipped inside, shutting it silently behind her.
She had stripped off the armor of the breathtaking red gown.
In its place, she wore a pair of flowing, wide-leg cream silk trousers and a soft, oversized cashmere sweater that had slipped down, exposing the smooth, golden skin of her left shoulder.
She looked incredibly fragile, but she didn’t look away.
When her dark, expressive eyes found him standing in the shadows of the room, the rigid tension instantly bled out of her posture. She let out a soft breath, and a small, genuinely relieved smile curved her lips.
Sean felt the answering smile pull at his own mouth, a sudden, blinding warmth flooding his veins and chasing away the cold anxiety.
He crossed the plush carpet, keeping his voice a low, steady rumble in the quiet space. “How long has it been since he left?”
“Ten minutes,” Rosália answered softly, wrapping her arms securely around her waist. She walked further into the room, kicking off her flats, her bare feet sinking into the rug. “He waited until he thought I was fast asleep. He didn’t even take his shoes. How long has Katherine been gone?”
“Twenty-five minutes,” Sean replied, his jaw hardening instinctively at the mention of the name.
Rosália exhaled a heavy, entirely resigned sigh. She sank onto the edge of a plush velvet armchair, closing her eyes as she shook her head. “It was exactly as you said it would be, Sean. They just couldn’t let this opportunity slip by.”
“No,” Sean murmured, his dark eyes tracing the tired lines of her beautiful face. “They wouldn’t.”
It hadn’t taken much effort for a man with Sean’s resources to figure out the logistics of their betrayal.
Katherine, using the limitless credit card Sean provided, had discreetly reserved a second, lower-level room in the hotel for the weekend.
Sean had known they would use the cover of the busy birthday party, wait until their respective partners were asleep, and sneak away to take advantage of the night.
But David and Katherine’s real surprise wouldn’t be down in that lower-level burner room.
Their nightmare would begin when they crept back up to the penthouse suites, expecting to slip quietly into bed beside the spouses they had just betrayed, only to pull back the heavy duvets and find the sheets completely, terrifyingly empty.
Let them sweat this one out, Sean thought, a dark, ruthless satisfaction curling deep in his gut. Let the panic set in when they realize the cages are empty.
He pulled his focus back to the woman in front of him.
Rosália was sitting on the edge of the armchair, nervously twisting her delicate fingers together in her lap, her knuckles turning white.
The agonizing reality of her husband currently sweating over another woman’s body was clearly suffocating her.
“So,” Rosália asked, her voice a fragile, breathless whisper. She looked up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes. “What are we going to do for the next few hours while we wait?”
Sean’s sharp, calculating demeanor melted entirely. A warm, breathtakingly handsome smile spread across his face, entirely genuine and meant only for her. “I have an idea.”
He stepped closer, invading her space just enough to offer his presence as a shield, and extended his large hand toward her.
Rosália looked at his outstretched, calloused palm for a fraction of a second.
And then, she placed her smaller hand completely in his.
She didn’t hesitate. The absolute, unshakeable trust in that simple, fluid movement sent a deep, intensely pleasant jolt of electricity straight up Sean’s arm and directly into his chest. He laced his long fingers tightly through hers, pulling her gently to her feet.
He didn’t let go as he led her out of the main living area, down a short hallway, and pushed open the double doors to a private, state-of-the-art media room.
Rosália’s breath hitched, her eyes widening in surprise.
Sean had requested the hotel staff prepare the room specifically for her.
A massive, high-definition projector screen dominated the far wall.
On the low mahogany coffee table, positioned perfectly in front of an oversized, pull-out velvet sofa, sat a meticulously arranged spread.
There was a silver platter overflowing with fresh, split figs, honey-drizzled blackberries, and sliced mangoes—every single fruit he had noticed her gravitate toward at neighborhood dinners.
Beside it sat a vintage-style popcorn machine, the rich, buttery scent filling the room and overriding the sterile smell of the hotel.
Resting in a silver ice bucket, condensation dripping down its sides, was a bottle of perfectly chilled sparkling wine from her absolute favorite vineyard.
Sean guided her to the plush sofa and grabbed the remote, dimming the recessed lights until the room was bathed entirely in the soft, intimate glow of the blank screen.
He popped the cork on the wine with a soft hiss, poured them each a crystal flute, and took a seat right beside her on the deep velvet cushions.
He pressed play.
The iconic, sweeping orchestral notes of Breakfast at Tiffany’s filled the room, and Audrey Hepburn’s face appeared on the massive screen, staring wistfully into the jewelry store window.
Rosália turned her head, looking at Sean with a brilliant, entirely disarmed smile that hit him with the force of a physical blow. “You remembered.”
Weeks ago, during a fleeting, casual conversation over the dark hedges that divided their properties, she had mentioned that the classic film was her ultimate comfort watch when she was feeling lost.
Sean held her gaze, his dark eyes dropping to the soft curve of her mouth for a fraction of a second before slowly rising to meet her eyes again.
“There is absolutely nothing about you that is forgettable, Rosália,” he murmured, his deep voice thick with a heavy, undeniable truth that vibrated in the small space between them.
A pretty, dark flush immediately rose to Rosália’s cheeks, blooming across her golden skin. She swallowed hard, suddenly looking incredibly shy, her eyelashes fluttering as she awkwardly turned her attention back to the massive screen.
For the next two hours, the movie played. They ate the popcorn and drank the crisp, expensive wine, but Sean could barely focus a single ounce of his attention on the plot.
The physical proximity was driving him out of his mind.
The room was a cocoon of sensory overload.
The subtle, intoxicating scent of her perfume—jasmine and something deep and warm like vanilla—mixed with the dark, quiet intimacy of the room.
Every time she laughed softly at a scene, her body shifted on the cushions.
Every time she leaned forward to grab a blackberry, her thigh brushed against his, the agonizing friction of her silk trousers against his dark slacks sending a surge of pure static electricity straight to his groin.
Sean felt his muscles pull taut, completely strung out.
He spent more time watching the flickering, cinematic light wash over the delicate lines of her face than he did looking at the screen.
He watched the way she absentmindedly chewed on her bottom lip.
He watched the elegant, graceful line of her neck when she tilted her head back to drink her wine.
He was a starving man sitting at a feast he wasn’t allowed to touch.
When the credits finally rolled and the room brightened slightly, the heavy atmosphere didn’t lift. It only intensified, pulling as tight as a tripwire.
They stayed on the sofa, shifting their bodies to fully face each other. They talked about the movie, effortlessly exchanging opinions about the characters’ flaws, their laughter quiet and entirely genuine.
But as the conversation naturally lulled, a profound, suffocatingly heavy silence settled over them.
They just looked at each other. The chemistry vibrating in the six inches of space between them was electric, undeniable, and completely consuming.
The air felt too thick to breathe. Sean’s gaze dropped to her lips, parting slightly as she drew in a shaky breath.
He felt the overwhelming, primitive urge to reach out, to fist his hand in her dark hair, pull her across the cushions, and finally taste the mouth he had been obsessing over all night.
Rosália’s chest rose and fell rapidly. Her eyes darkened, mirroring the exact same heavy, consuming desire that was tearing him apart. She leaned in, just a fraction of an inch, caught entirely in his gravitational pull.
But before the distance could close, the harsh, violent buzz of Sean’s cell phone vibrated against the mahogany coffee table.
The spell shattered.
Rosália jerked back, blinking rapidly as if waking from a trance, her cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson. She looked down, nervously clearing her throat. “Do you think... do you think they might have returned to the suites by now?”
Sean reluctantly pulled himself back from the edge, his jaw locked tight in absolute frustration. He picked up his phone. The screen illuminated the dark room, displaying a text message received over an hour ago from the night manager he had heavily compensated to monitor the lower-level hallway.
Sean’s eyes hardened into chips of black ice as he read the screen. “They left the burner room an hour ago. First the man, and then the woman ten minutes later. They’re back in the penthouses.”
Rosália exhaled a shaky breath, the harsh, ugly reality of their situation crashing back down, burying the beautiful moment they had just shared. The light in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a terrible, exhausted anxiety. She set her empty wine glass on the table and stood up.
“It’s better if I go back now,” she said softly, wrapping her arms protectively around her waist. “Before he starts tearing the hotel apart looking for me.”
Sean stood up, his massive frame towering over her.
Every instinct in his body screamed at him not to let her go.
He didn’t want her walking back into a room with a man who had treated her like absolute garbage.
He wanted her to stay right here, locked in this sanctuary with him, where he could protect her.
But he was a strategist. He knew that for the next phase of their plan to work flawlessly, she had to return to the scene of the crime.
“Alright,” Sean conceded quietly, walking her out of the media room and to the heavy suite door.
He reached out, his warm, calloused hand gently cupping her bare shoulder, his thumb stroking the soft skin just once.
“Get some sleep, Rosália. Tomorrow, you will be able to enjoy the day much more after we put the second part of the plan into action.”
A genuine, fierce spark of anticipation lit up Rosália’s eyes, cutting through the anxiety. She smiled, nodding her head. “Goodnight, Sean.”
She turned around, pulling the heavy door open and stepping out into the quiet, heavily carpeted hallway of the penthouse floor. She walked toward the bank of private elevators, pressing the silver button to take her to the opposite wing of the hotel where her suite was located.
Sean stood in the doorway, watching her walk away, refusing to close the door until he knew she was safely in the elevator car.
The silver doors of the elevator slid open with a soft, echoing ding.
Rosália stepped forward, a soft, lingering smile still playing on her lips from the night they had shared.
And then, she froze entirely.
Standing directly inside the elevator car, dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a hastily buttoned dress shirt, was David.
He looked incredibly pale, his hair wild and disheveled, a frantic, unhinged look of pure panic stamped across his face.
“Rose!” David gasped, his chest heaving as if he had been sprinting through the labyrinth of the hotel corridors. “Where the hell have you been? I woke up and the bed was empty. I’ve been looking everywhere for—”
David’s frantic words died a sudden, violent death in his throat.
His dark eyes shifted past his wife’s shoulder, looking down the long, empty corridor. His gaze locked directly onto Sean, who was standing casually in the open doorway of the dimly lit extra suite, watching them with absolute, terrifying calm.
The panic on David’s face evaporated in a fraction of a second. The blood rushed violently back into his cheeks, his expression twisting into something ugly, deeply possessive, and entirely murderous.
David lunged forward. He grabbed Rosália’s arm with bruising force, jerking her roughly out of the elevator car and pulling her behind him, his furious eyes never leaving Sean.
“What the fuck,” David snarled, his voice echoing loudly in the dead-quiet hallway, “were you doing in a hotel room with him?”