Chapter Three #3
Instead, I’d circled her with charm, then gone straight to the Sultan and his advisors with the suspicion that there was no baby. And a request for the simple summoning of a medical team with ultrasound equipment so I could see our growing child had led to Tamara’s house of lies crumbling.
I presented my blueprints like a dagger wrapped in silk and I won the project. Added my masterpiece to the portfolio. And walked away from her with both my freedom and the integrity of my name intact.
That was the lesson I’d learnt. Never trust a woman who uses her tears as a currency. Never believe a word when the stakes are blood and legacy. Because I knew where that ended.
I’d lived it with my mother.
Her lies had ruined us with every scandal inked into society pages, her reckless defiance dragging our family name through mud thick enough that I thought we’d never breathe again.
My father had tried to contain her with rules, iron and stone, and when that failed, he’d tried to contain me instead.
I’d escaped by building walls of my own, the kind made of steel and stone, not love and illusion.
Which is why Tessa’s vague text had been so easy to dismiss.
But I’d never forgotten the unforgettable woman who sent it. She’d haunted me in lurid dreams long before lancing me with that look on her face tonight.
Fuck.
I lean back, drag a hand over my face and curse under my breath. Ten…twenty minutes bleed by, the city outside my window humming with light and laughter. My pulse won’t settle.
A knock at the door pulls me upright. The butler stands there with a silver tray, the hotel’s signature dessert—flaky pastel de nata with crème anglaise—still warm. I take it, dismiss him and close the door behind me.
My hand hovers over the connecting suite door. I can almost hear water running, can almost see her emerging wrapped in steam and fury.
And for reasons I don’t want to name, I know I’m going to bring her this plate myself.
Tessa
Steam still curls around the bathroom mirror when I step out, robe belted with vicious tugs. My skin is hot from scalding water and self-recrimination.
I hate myself for saying it. For repeating those words I should’ve buried deep, irretrievably, years ago. I need to see you. Please call me back.
What kind of woman does that? Who repeats a four-year-old plea verbatim, as if it’s etched into her marrow? It reeks of obsession. Of vulnerable yearning. One marginally worse than the other.
And the way he looked at me after—cold, arrogant, as if pitying me for being one in a long line of women who clung on long after they should have let go.
I drag the belt tighter until it bites into my waist. Enough. I’ve survived worse than Theodore Biney.
A knock at the connecting door jolts me.
My first instinct is to ignore it, to retreat. But the thought of him believing I’m hiding and licking my wounds propels me forward, pride tripping over reason.
I wrench the door open. I want to kick myself for losing my breath when I see him standing there, broad-shouldered and maddening, minus his dinner jacket, holding a silver tray.
‘I don’t want—’
He lifts the lid.
Warm pastry, custard cream, sugar dust. Pastel de nata, Lisbon’s crown jewel. The scent alone is temptation.
Damn it. Eating my feelings is a flaw I’ve never fixed.
He sees me waver. Of course he does.
With infuriating ease, he strides past me into my suite, sets the tray on the balcony table, and drops into a chair like he owns the view. Then he arches one eyebrow at me, a silent dare.
I fold my arms, glower. He doesn’t blink.
Minutes stretch until finally, I cave, stalking out to the balcony and snatching a fork. The first bite is molten heaven, custard spilling warmth across my tongue. I devour another bite, then another, the silence hanging thick. He doesn’t speak, he just watches. Intently.
When a crumb catches at the corner of my mouth, his hand moves before I can stop him. His thumb brushes lightly against my lip. I freeze. He lingers a heartbeat too long before lifting it to his mouth and licking it off.
My breath hitches.
The air shifts and crackles.
His eyes hold mine, dark and relentless, and suddenly we’re leaning towards each other.
His mouth slants over mine, hot and demanding, tasting of sugar and danger. The kiss spirals out of control fast—his hand tangling in my damp hair, my robe loosening, his chest a solid heat against the thin barrier of terrycloth.
My fingers clutch at his shirt to yank him closer. Between heartbeats we’re skin to skin, the world narrowed into pure sensation.
Then he murmurs against my lips, something like, ‘…taste even better than before.’
The words crash through me like ice water. Just like before. The past I’ve fought so hard to bury, the loss I can’t name without breaking.
I shove at his chest, robe clutched tight against my breastbone, heart hammering. ‘Stop. Leave.’
For once, he doesn’t argue. He steps back immediately, gaze unreadable. But at the door, he glances over his shoulder, mouth curved in a lethal half-smile.
‘You can tell yourself you don’t still want me,’ he says, voice low, threaded with certainty, ‘but that kiss just proved you’re lying. And we both know it.’
Then he’s gone, leaving the taste of him—and everything I swore I’d never feel again—burning on my lips.