CARMEN POV
You should drink more," Gigi giggled, slamming another shot glass in front of me.
I rolled my eyes but lifted it anyway. My skin felt warm, my cheeks flushed, and everything in the club was spinning just a little too fast. The music pulsed through my veins. I was buzzing—loud and loose.
I tossed the shot back.
Mistake.
Everything tilted slightly, and I stumbled out of the booth. "Bathroom," I muttered, waving Gigi off as I pushed through the crowd. The bodies, the lights, the noise—it was too much.
Then someone slammed into me, hard.
"Fuck off," I snapped, rubbing my shoulder and looking up
And froze.
He was tall. Broad. Dressed in all black. His shirt stretched across his chest, open just enough to hint at tattoos beneath. His jaw was sharp, his lips unsmiling, and his eyes dark, unreadable—locked onto me like a warning.
Older. Sexy as hell. Dangerous in the worst kind of way.
"Watch your mouth, little one," he said, voice low and smooth like expensive whiskey.
I scoffed, swallowing the heat that rose to my cheeks.
"Or what?" I challenged, tilting my chin up.
A beat of silence passed.
His gaze didn't move. It pinned me in place like a command I hadn't earned yet.
Then he smirked—just a hint, barely there. But it burned.
"You don't want to find out," he said.
But I kind of did.
He moved closer not too close, just enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. The crowd thinned around us like they sensed something dangerous. Or maybe it was just the look in his eyes. Intense. Heated. Possessive.
I hated how my breath caught.
"You should be more careful," he murmured. "Mouth like that'll get you in trouble."
My lips parted. "Maybe I like trouble."
His gaze dropped, slowly, to my mouth. He didn't smile. He didn't need to.
And then he reached out—just two fingers brushing my chin, tilting my head slightly. Testing the limit. Waiting for me to pull away.
I didn't.
He took that as an answer.
Next thing I knew, I was pressed against the cool wall of a hallway behind the club. One hand on my waist, firm but not rough. The other gripped my wrists, raising them above my head.
"What are you doing?" I whispered, my heart pounding too hard, too fast.
His face hovered near mine, his breath warm against my skin. "Teaching you what happens when you talk back."
I should've been scared. I wasn't.
My thighs pressed together involuntarily.
"You want to stop?" he asked, voice even. Calm.
I shook my head.
"Say it."
"I don't want to stop," I whispered
He didn't ask me if I wanted to leave with him.
He just looked at me long, dark, dangerous and said, "Follow me."
And I did.
Like I didn't have a choice. Like I belonged to him the moment he touched me.
We left through a back entrance of the club, and within fifteen minutes we were in a penthouse suite that smelled like leather and smoke.
He closed the door behind us and locked it with a quiet click.
I didn't even have time to look around before he was behind me, hands on my hips, lips grazing my neck.
"Take off your dress," he said, voice low, calm, and cold.
My fingers trembled as I obeyed. Something about the way he said it like he expected to be obeyed sent heat straight between my legs.
But before I could slip it down completely, his hand covered mine.
"No," he murmured against my ear. "Let me."
He dragged the zipper down slowly, eyes watching every inch of skin as it was revealed. When the fabric fell to the floor, I felt exposed. Vulnerable.
Turned on.
He stepped back to admire me. "Good girl."
I almost whimpered.
Then came the tie.
Same one from before..black silk. He held it in front of me like a promise.
"Turn around."
I did.
"Hands behind your back."
My breath hitched, but I obeyed.
He tied me. Firm, secure but not cruel. He knew exactly what he was doing.
And once I was bound, he pulled me against him, his hand in my hair, his mouth brushing my ear.
"I like obedience," he said. "But I love breaking girls who talk back."
Then he pushed me down onto the bed—face-first, arms pinned behind me and made me forget everything except the sound of his voice and the feeling of his hands.
Rough.
Commanding.
Addictive.
He didn't just fuck me.
He ruined me.
***
"Behave yourself, Carmen. And be polite to Hunter," my mom warned, her voice tight with fake cheer.
I scoffed. "I don't owe anyone anything. You should've just let me stay in Dad's house."
She winced. "I can't let you live alone."
"Why not?" I snapped. "You left us for a richer man anyway, so what's the difference?"
Her fingers fidgeted in her lap. "You won't understand, Carmen."
I let out a bitter laugh and looked away. Of course that's all she's going to say. She always hides behind that line. Like walking out on us was some kind of mystery I wasn't smart enough to solve.
She looked at me again. "Hunter is your new dad now, okay? Just… show some respect."
"My dad's dead," I said flatly, turning to look out the window. The city blurred past. Skyscrapers, fancy buildings, places I'd never been. He never would've brought me here.
By the time we pulled up to the house—no, mansion—I was over it. But even I couldn't stop the small gasp that escaped me. It looked like something out of a movie. Tall iron gates. Perfect lawn. Pillars. Glass like mirrors.
"Do you like it?" she asked, smiling like she didn't just rip my life apart. "It's big."
I didn't answer. I opened the door, stepped out, and reached for my duffel bag.
"Wait…the maids will get it," she said quickly, placing her hand on mine.
I pulled away. "You're the rich wife. I'm not. I'll carry my own damn bag."
She didn't say anything just walked in like we were normal. Like everything was fine. I followed behind her, dragging my box over the threshold.
The inside was massive. High ceilings, gold everywhere like someone vomited money and called it art. A huge glass chandelier dangled overhead, sparkling like ice. The floors were white marble, cold and shining like mirrors.
Now I see why she left Dad.
I hated it. Every inch of this house screamed his money, not hers. And I loathed being here stuffed between my mother and her husband, pretending I didn't notice the diamond ring on her finger or the smile she wore like a mask.
I missed Dad. I missed the man who raised me, who gave everything until there was nothing left of him. And here she was—acting like we had a mother-daughter bond. Like she hadn't walked out on me and a man dying in a hospital bed.
My fingers tightened around the handle of my box, the wheels thudding across the tile.
"Carmen…" she said beside me, almost whispering. "Please be nice."
"No promises," I muttered, eyes locked straight ahead.
We reached the living room and something felt off.
The air was heavy, warm. A little too familiar. I caught the scent of cologne, and something inside me snapped.
I knew that smell.
My throat closed. I shook my head quickly, trying to brush it off. No. No, it can't be.
Then I saw him.
Just the back of him at first, sitting casually on the edge of a cream leather sofa. Tall. Broad shoulders. He leaned forward, one arm draped lazily over the backrest like he owned the world.
"Hunter," Mom said brightly.
He stood.
And turned.
And I couldn't breathe.
My eyes flew wide. My heart dropped to the floor.
That face.
Those eyes.
I gasped. "No…"
His piercing gaze locked on mine—and I knew. I knew.
He's the man from that night