13. Kate
Kate
Michael’s hand rests low on my back, fingers splayed, possessive. Protective. Warning.
He walks beside me like a god surveying his kingdom. Eyes hard. Jaw tight. The scent of his cologne clings to my skin. I keep my chin up, expression neutral, but inside… I’m chaos.
The yacht is deeper in the ocean now. The coastline’s long gone. The water around us dark as ink.
Someone announces over the speaker system:
“We’ve officially crossed into international waters. Games begin in twenty.”
Phones are collected.
Photos? Prohibited.
Michael murmurs in my ear, “This is where the real night begins.”
A woman in red takes my arm gently and smiles. “You’re with him, yes? Come with me. There’s a wardrobe change. You’ll want to look the part.”
“What—what’s wrong with my dress.”
“Nothing… it’s just… international waters calls for a more formal occasion?” I’m confused but Michael nods once. A signal.
The room I’m led to is dripping in luxury—silks, velvet, gold accents. I’m handed a black velvet gown, deep-slit, backless, everything designed to seduce. There’s a pair of black Louboutins, diamond-studded cuffs, and a necklace that sparkles like temptation.
A handwritten note from none other than my enigmatic lover himself—explaining the pleasure it gave him to pick out this outfit for me. I shouldn’t feel thrilled.. the whole thing seems to ‘pretty womanish’ for me.
I’m not a whore.
Paid or otherwise.
But being a strong, financially independent woman bored with the mediocrity of men online has worn me down. Maybe I secretly crave this…a strong man, making me feel hunted, wanted… whatever the fuck high this is—I’m not ready for it to stop.
By the time I’m returned to Michael, he’s at the private bar with three other men. One of them is Romanov—his cold blue stare slides over me like a blade.
Michael’s head turns as if he sensed me coming. His eyes rake over me—slow, hot, searing. He doesn't smile, but his lips twitch like he might. Or might kill someone.
He offers his arm. I take it.
He leans in, voice a rasp:
“Behave, kitten. Or don’t.”
The energy in the room shifts as the stakes climb. Michael sits at the table like he owns it—because he does. Every move he makes is measured, calculated. A flick of his fingers and a glass is filled. A lift of his brow and men fold.
I stand behind him, one hand resting on the back of his chair, the other holding a glass of something I can’t pronounce but burn all the way down.
The tension coils tight in my stomach. Every now and then, I feel his pinky brush mine on purpose.
A reminder I’m not just here to look pretty. I’m here because I’m his.
Across the table, Romanov watches me with ice-blue eyes, his women draped over him like silk scarves.
His smirk tells me he’s used to getting what he wants.
Tonight, he’s not. He gives me the ‘ick’ I wanted a romantic evening with Michael not whatever weird “Hunger Games and Silence of the Lambs” energy was going on in here.
Michael leans back and whispers to me, "Go explore, if you want. Just stay within the velvet." He nods to the roped-off boundaries around the VIP decks. "Security knows your face."
I nod, brushing my fingers down his shoulder before I leave. I needed fresh air. The sea always called to me. I wanted to try to hear the music in my mind again.
The yacht is alive with heat and shadows. Champagne flows. The music thrums low, bass-heavy and seductive. I pass murmured conversations, laughter that never reaches anyone's eyes, and women with secrets in their lipstick stains.
I end up at the bow, past the velvet, ignoring the rope like it was never there.
I know he told me not to pass it, but the sea is endless ahead, black and glittering under the moon.
It called me, like a siren’s song. I grip the railing, inhale the ocean, and try to slow my racing heart.
For a second—I almost fill it, the stirring in my soul…
the fluttering of notes in my heart trying to surface.
I almost hear the start of a song but then I feel him.
His warmth. His presence. That energy.
He’s a whole concert.
Michael steps behind me, caging me in with his arms on either side of mine.
"You left the table," I say, still facing the water.
"You left the rules," he counters. “You keep leaving— ending up here…”
"You knew I would. Those people really aren’t my scene.”
He doesn't say a word, instead, his lips brush my ear. “It’s not safe. Someone could hurt you.”
“Like push me over?”
“I’d kill them, after I jump in after you.”
His hands slip around my waist. Up. Under my dress. Over my hips. Down between my thighs.
My gasp turns breathless.
"Michael—"
He doesn’t stop until I shudder, gasping his name like a prayer.
His hard length presses against my ass, thick and demanding.
“Back inside, baby,” he rasps. “Before I drag you down to the engine room and fuck you where no one can hear your screams.”
In my mind, I imagine it. I almost ask him to take me there. Instead, I bite back a moan and follow him inside.
Once we’re away from the others, Michael stops to straighten my dress. His hands, so demanding only moments ago, move carefully over the fabric. He smooths it over my hips, then pushes a loose strand of hair away from my face.
His expression changes.
“Kate, baby?”
The melancholy of almost having the music back must show on my face, but he doesn’t know that story.
Not yet.
“I—I just wish we could have a more normal date. Sometime.”
“Ah, she finally admits this is more than a hot hookup. She wants a date. I knew it.”
His sexy smirk makes my knees weak.
I roll my eyes. “Never mind.”
“Too late. There’s no going back.”
“Your world is nothing like mine.”
“Men in your world bore you—admit it.”
“Boring is safe.”
“Boring led you to my bed…”
“Maybe…but getting me to stay there? That will require more than fancy yachts filled with whatever this is…”
“I hear you. I do. I just couldn’t do anything about tonight. I had to be here to chaperone this shitshow, or it would get out of hand.”
“How so?”
“They wanted an auction.”
I lift a brow. “To auction off people?”
“Something like that…”
“People who are overtly rich get bored. I’m convinced of it. Then they do crazy, stupid shit like what we saw tonight. I like my ordinary life.”
“And just how do you make a living, Kate?” His dark eyes rove over me as his index finger lightly traces my collarbone.
I shiver. I can’t help it. His touch and his question are equally dangerous.
“That’s a first-date question.”
“We’re past all that.”
“Are we?”
“You tell me.”
“I’m still deciding.”
“I’m sorry tonight was more business than romance. I’ll do better.”
I still for a second, then meet his gaze.
“I used to write music. I can’t anymore.
It’s gone from me. I sold some of my songs, and they did well.
I’ve been trying to find that thing—that spark of musical genius that used to be inside me.
I get frustrated when it’s still not there, so I stopped trying for a long time.
My grandparents bought stock in Ford Motor Company in the fifties.
Not a lot, but enough to be worth a lot now.
I sold most of it. It was probably stupid, but it gave me enough to live life the way I want. ”
I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable with how much I’ve admitted.
Michael doesn’t interrupt or offer one of his arrogant remarks. He listens with his head slightly tilted, as if he’s committing every word to memory.
“You’ll find your music again, Kate. I see it in you, even if you don’t feel it.”
“That might be the most romantic thing you’ve said to me.”
A soft smile curves his mouth. “And here I thought my best line was, ‘You’re out, and she’s in.’”
I laugh, and something inside me loosens.
He has a sense of humor I wasn’t expecting—a playful side beneath his serious demeanor that softens me. Intrigues me.
It’s hard to reconcile this version of Michael—the man listening as if every word I say matters—with the one Bayview whispers about. The ruthless casino heir. The killer. The mob boss who controls half the city from behind locked doors.
Both versions are real.
And I’m beginning to suspect the one standing in front of me may be even more dangerous, because this Michael could make me trust him.
He’s offering me pieces of himself while I’m still lying. Pretending. Giving him carefully selected half-truths and letting him believe they add up to a whole woman.
His gaze remains on my face, open in a way I haven’t seen before.
I look away first, letting my attention drift across the opulent room. Cameras everywhere. Men posted just outside wearing earpieces and gun holsters.
I can’t let myself forget who Michael really is, no matter how badly I sometimes wish he were someone else. But that’s the lie, isn’t it? If he weren’t a millionaire mob boss—powerful, dangerous, and completely forbidden—he wouldn’t be nearly as thrilling. And I might not want him this badly.