~~Ricardo's POV~~
The morning sunlight bled through the blinds, piercing into my room like sharp daggers that refused to let me rest. Sleep had been scarce these past few nights, but not because of my company, not because of deals that demanded my attention. No. My sleeplessness was born of her.
Anastasia Texas.
Her name tasted like forbidden fruit on my tongue. Sweet. Innocent. Untouched. And mine to corrupt.
I sat up in bed, dragging a hand through my dark hair as I stared at the file sprawled open across my nightstand. Her picture—an innocent photograph of her in that ridiculous waitress uniform—was clipped neatly to the first page. She wasn't dressed to seduce, but to me, she didn't need to. Her wide eyes already begged for protection she would never receive, her posture screamed submission even when she tried to feign strength. She didn't realize it yet, but she was the perfect prey.
I reached forward and traced the image with my finger, lingering at the curve of her lips. A mouth made for screaming, for begging, for surrendering. A mouth I would break until it learned to only speak my name in devotion and despair.
My chest tightened with an ache that was half rage, half lust. The daughter of the man who ruined my life stood as my enemy. But instead of spilling her blood, I wanted to bind her. Instead of taking her freedom, I wanted to take her body, her dignity, her will. That was the deeper revenge—making her mine against her own wishes, turning her into the bride who hated me yet couldn't escape me.
I leaned back, a cruel smile curving my lips as I envisioned it: Anastasia in white lace, walking toward me with trembling steps, knowing she had been bought, cornered, blackmailed into my world. My bride. My possession. My tool for revenge and pleasure alike.
The thought stirred something dark and primitive inside me. I could already imagine the moment I claimed her fully—her first time. She'd hate me for it, cry beneath me, but she'd remember that moment forever. The night Ricardo Antonio marked her as his. The night innocence shattered and submission was born.
But fantasies were useless without execution. Today, I had to set the stage.
"Boss," Lucas's voice came from outside my office door later that morning.
"Enter," I commanded, barely glancing up from my desk. I had been scribbling notes in the margin of Anastasia's file.
Lucas stepped in, his sharp black suit a mirror of my own. "Kenneth confirmed the venue for tonight. Everything will be in place."
"Good," I replied, my voice flat but deliberate. "She'll be there. Lexus already knows the consequences if he dares defy me."
Lucas hesitated. I didn't need to look at him to know his jaw was tightening. "And when she comes, boss? What exactly is your move?"
I lifted my eyes to him, cold and unyielding. "Control, Lucas. Absolute control."
He shifted, discomfort flickering across his features. For days he'd been biting back his objections. He thought I didn't notice. But I noticed everything.
"You're doubting me again," I said softly, my tone more dangerous than a shout.
"Not doubting," he answered carefully. "Just…warning. She's different, boss. Not like the women you usually play with. She looks…fragile."
"That's exactly why she won't survive me," I cut in, my lips curling. "And that's the point."
The silence hung heavy between us until Lucas finally bowed his head and left.
I returned to the photograph on my desk. My hand gripped the paper, knuckles whitening. She would learn. Anastasia would learn that fragility was a weakness I intended to exploit.
Evening came, and with it, my hunger.
Kenneth met me at the entrance of the restaurant, his smile sly and mocking as always. "So, tonight's the big night, eh? The little lamb meets the wolf again."
"Watch your tongue, Kenneth," I muttered, brushing past him. "She's not a lamb. She's my target."
"And your obsession," he teased, but wisely kept his voice low when my glare snapped to him.
Inside, the restaurant buzzed with the usual chatter, but my eyes filtered past the crowd instantly until they landed on her.
Anastasia.
She moved between tables, balancing trays with delicate precision. But I wasn't watching her hands. I was watching the sway of her hips under that simple skirt, the curve of her neck when she tilted her head to listen to a customer, the fleeting shadows of her eyes when they accidentally flicked toward me.
She felt me. Even when she pretended not to look, she felt me.
"Bring her," I ordered Lexus when he rushed to my table.
The man paled instantly. "At once, Mr Antonio."
Minutes later, she appeared. Hesitant steps carried her closer, and I drank in every second of it like a starving man. The distance between us shrank, and with it, her courage. I could see it in the tremble of her fingers, the way she clutched her order pad as though it could shield her from me.
"Sit," I insisted on, my voice low but rigid.
She flickered, terrified. "S-sir, I'm working—"
"Sit," I repeated, my tone sharp as a blade.
Her lips pressed together in defiance, but her body betrayed her as she lowered herself into the chair opposite me.
I leaned back, studying her with slow, deliberate cruelty. "You've been running from me, Anastasia. Why?"
Her brows knitted, but she didn't answer.
"Is it fear?" I pressed, tilting my head. "Or pride?"
"I don't owe you an explanation," she whispered, though her voice shook.
I laughed darkly, the sound rolling through the air like thunder. "That's where you're wrong. You owe me everything. And soon, you'll understand why."
Her eyes widened, but before she could speak, I reached across the table and captured her chin in my hand. The contact was electric, her soft skin against the roughness of my palm. She flinched, but I tightened my grip, forcing her to meet my gaze.
"Look at me," I ordered.
Her gaze locked with mine, reluctantly yet helplessly, and I saw it—the spark of purity, the flicker of defiance, the shivering fear. It was intoxicating.
I lowered my voice, my words brushing against her like a threat and a promise. "Do you know what happens to girls who defy me, Anastasia? They break. Every time. And when you break, you'll beg me to put you back together."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
I smirked, releasing her abruptly. She gasped, rubbing her chin as though to erase the imprint of my touch. But she couldn't. Not now.
Not ever.
"You'll come to me," I said, leaning closer, my breath grazing her ear. "On your knees, in tears, in surrender. Whether you want it or not."
Then I stood, straightened my suit, and left her frozen in her chair, shattered by the weight of what I'd just promised.
Tonight wasn't about taking her body. Tonight was about planting the seed of inevitability. And as I walked out into the night, a cruel satisfaction spread through me.
Because she was already mine.