Seated at the head of a table lit by tall candles, with fine dishes and crystal glasses, Vicenzo looked impeccable in a dark suit. He didn't even stand when she entered.
"You're late," he said coldly, slowly swirling the wine in his glass.
"It's 8:01 p.m."
He looked up. Dark eyes, cold as the night outside.
"One extra minute, one more mistake."
Lara bit her tongue, walked slowly toward the table, and sat down without being invited. He raised an eyebrow, as if impressed by her defiance.
"Trying to provoke me?" he asked calmly.
"No, Vicenzo. I'm just trying to survive."
He smiled. A crooked smile, more threat than amusement.
"That's good. It means you still have energy. I'll know how to use it."
Dinner was served by a silent team, appearing and disappearing without a word. Lara could barely touch the food. The tension in the room was thick, suffocating.
"How old were you when your father took everything from mine?" he asked suddenly, slicing a piece of meat with surgical precision.
Lara froze. "I was sixteen."
"And still, you kept using the Fernandes name to open doors." He looked straight at her. "You're his accomplice, Lara. Don't fool yourself."
"I never asked for any of this. My father may have made mistakes, but I'm not responsible for them."
He rested his elbows on the table, fingers interlaced.
"But you'll pay for them."
She leaned forward, defiant.
"With my body?"
Vicenzo leaned in too, his eyes burning. "With everything you have to give. Your body. Your time. Your will. Until I decide you've given enough."
Lara trembled, not from fear, but from the intensity in his voice. As if vengeance were the only thing keeping him alive.
The dinner continued in silence. A silence that screamed. Lara felt every muscle in her body tense, as if she weren't sitting in front of a man who wanted her in his bed, but before a judge.
When the last plate was cleared, Vicenzo stood.
She waited for him to say something. To dismiss her. To throw another cruel remark.
But all he did was walk to the door of the suite and, before crossing it, he looked back over his shoulder:
"I'm waiting for you in the bedroom. Get ready. Tonight, you start giving it all back."
The door closed behind him. And Lara sat there, heart pounding like a war drum.
On the other side of the door, Vicenzo leaned against the wall, eyes closed.
He had won. He finally had Lara Fernandes under his control. And yet… something felt wrong.
She didn't cry. She didn't beg. She didn't break.
She resisted. And that disturbed him more than he wanted to admit.
✦✦✦
She walked down the hallway with slow steps. Her bare feet made barely a sound against the soft carpet. When she opened the door to the adjacent room, the air was drenched in shadows. Low lighting. A woody scent. The heavy stillness of something about to unfold.
Vicenzo stood by the window, his jacket gone, tie loosened, the white shirt slightly open. His gaze fell on her the moment the door clicked shut.
"Take off the dress."
It was a command. Cold. Unhesitating. Like an order given on a battlefield.
Lara stood still for a few seconds.
"And if I don't want to?"
He didn't smile. Didn't grow irritated. He simply crossed his arms, studying her.
"You will."
"Because you think you own me?"
"Because you want me."
The silence between them detonated like a bomb. Her chest rose and fell with force. Was he right? Could he be? Or was it just manipulation?
She brought her hands to the zipper of her dress. Slowly. Without breaking eye contact.
"Then look at me. If that's what you want. See me."
The zipper slid down. The dress slipped off her shoulders, then her hips, until it pooled at her feet. Lara stood tall, proud, her head held high, in black lace lingerie—the only barrier left between her and complete exposure.
"Take a good look, Vicenzo. At what you paid for... and what you might never truly own."
This time, he smiled. But it was different. Slow. Dark. Heated.
He walked toward her, every step a sensual threat. He stopped just close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body against hers.
"I didn't buy you, Lara."
His fingers touched the side of her face, a caress almost reverent.
"I rented your presence. But your power… that, I intend to conquer."
She trembled. But she didn't back away.
Vicenzo's eyes dropped to her lips.
"You hate me."
"With every ounce of strength I have."
"Good. Because hate is desire's twin brother."
And then he kissed her.
It wasn't a kiss that was asked. But it wasn't violent either. It was a kiss full of rage, repression, and everything they'd been trying to suppress since the very beginning.
And she gave in—not to surrender, but to prove she was strong.
His hands were on her waist, her back, then climbing her spine like liquid fire. Lara answered with equal intensity, biting his lower lip, tugging at his shirt, scratching his bare chest.
He lifted her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing, and carried her to the bed. But he didn't throw her down. He laid her there slowly, deliberately, as if to say, I even control the rhythm of your breath.
Lara looked up at him, her eyes ablaze.
"If you're using me to get revenge on my father—"
"No, Lara," he cut in, his voice deeper, rougher. "It's not about him anymore."
He kissed her again, his kiss burning like poison, and Lara drank every drop.
He pressed her into the sheets, his large hands mapping her body like a conqueror claiming territory. Lara arched her back, her fingers digging into his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt.
"This is hate?" he whispered against her mouth, teeth grazing her lower lip.
"Yes," she lied, as her nails sank into his shoulders.
Vicenzo laughed, low, dark, dangerous, and then his mouth traced down her neck, teasing the sensitive skin above her collarbone. Lara let out a soft, involuntary moan, and instantly hated herself for it.
"You speak like you hate me," he murmured, his lips moving down over her breasts, "but your body tells me different secrets."
She tried to push him away, but he grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand. His other hand slid slowly down her side to the elastic of her panties.
"Do you want me to stop?"
She took a deep breath. Her heart was beating so hard she was afraid he could hear it.
"No."
The admission came out as a challenge. Vicenzo smiled slowly, and then his touch finally found her, intimate, accurate, making her gasp.
"Good girl."
Lara closed her eyes, trying to fight the sensations, but her body betrayed her every second. He knew every weak spot, every curve, every sigh she tried to swallow.
And when he finally penetrated her, it was with excruciating slowness, his dark eyes fixed on hers, as if he wanted to memorize every expression of pleasure and pain that crossed her face.
"Now look at me," he ordered, his voice hoarse. "I want you to remember exactly who is fucking you."
And she looked.
She looked as he pushed her to the limit, as her muscles burned, as hatred and desire mingled into something impossible to separate.
She looked when orgasm hit her like a runaway train, making her fingers dig into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
And she still looked when he finally gave in to his pleasure, burying his face in her neck with a muffled moan.