David Pov
I stand frozen in the hallway, the cool marble floor a stark contrast to the fire in my veins. Maya's voice is a knife, twisting the raw wound of my shame.
"Dad? Are you alright? I thought I heard a crash or something."
I force myself to turn, the effort immense. "No, nothing, honey. Just… tripped." My voice is a low, forced thing, the lie a bitter taste. "Head's a bit foggy. Long day."
Leo steps forward, a polished smile on his face that doesn't reach his eyes. "Mr. Petrov's right, Maya. It's been a long day for both of us. The merger discussions are… intense." He looks at me, and his eyes, so full of feigned concern, hold a glint of something dark and knowing. He's enjoying this, this twisted game of pretense.
Maya's smile returns, bright and innocent. "I told you, Dad. You need to relax more. Leo's right, you work too hard." She turns to him, her hand touching his arm. "Thank you for looking out for him, honey."
Leo's eyes flick to her hand, then to me. A silent, venomous smirk plays on his lips. "Anything for your father, Maya."
The casual intimacy of his words, the way he says "your father," is a gut punch. I want to shatter this fragile illusion, to grab him and scream at him to stop playing this game. I turn away from them, the need for air a suffocating force.
"I need to get back to the table," I say, my voice clipped. "We can't be rude."
I walk away, and I can feel their eyes on my back. I am a man of control, a master of my own universe, but with him, I am a slave.
---
The dinner table is a battlefield of forced smiles and meaningless chatter. I glance at Leo across the table, and his eyes lock with mine. He gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod, a silent pact, a secret we both share.
A new kind of rage burns in me. He has no right to be this calm, this composed. He has no right to make me feel this way.
The dinner ends in a blur. I make my hasty goodbyes.
"It was a pleasure, Mr. Johnson," I say, shaking his hand, the words a lie. "My apologies for the early departure."
"Nonsense, David," he says, his voice a low rumble. "You're a busy man. We understand."
In the car, the silence is a heavy blanket. My driver, Dmitri, keeps his eyes on the road, but I can feel his silent questions.
"You need to talk to someone, David," he says, his voice a low, concerned murmur. "This isn't you."
I turn to him, my eyes narrowed. "I am in complete control, Dmitri."
He doesn't respond, the silence a testament to my lie.
After some minutes we arrived at my penthouse. It is a beautiful, empty fortress. I pour myself a scotch, the amber liquid a burning fire in my throat. I pace the living room, Maya is not around this period, more like she is barely around, she loves me but she prefers to spend days at her mother's side or her dorm than here.
Maybe it is because of the way I was when I was married, always too busy for Maya and her mother, Selene.
I know how many school events and birthday parties I've missed and just when my wife left she took Maya too, more like Maya decided she can't live such a life with me and now I'm doing something that will make her hate me back, just when everything was getting better.
My phone buzzes on the marble countertop, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I pick it up, and my heart pounds in my chest. Unknown number. I open the message.
_I thought it was meant to be a one-night thing. 😉_
A cold fury courses through me. I want to smash the phone. He's not just a ghost; he's a player, and he's taunting me. I grab my keys and head out the door. The need to escape this suffocating feeling is all I can think of.
I find myself at a club downtown, a dark, pulsing place where I can be alone in a crowd. The bass is a low thrumming in my chest, a heavy beat that matches the one in my own heart. I walk to the bar and order a scotch.
"Another one?" the bartender asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Just get me the scotch," I say, my voice a low growl.
I take a sip, and the warmth spreads through me, a fleeting comfort.
I'm turning to something I'm not, this is not the usual controlled David, I need to stop this burning thoughts seeping in me, unless I will crash from the force
I turn my back to the bar, and my heart stops. He's here. Leo.
He stands across the crowded room, a vision in a black silk shirt, the top two buttons undone, revealing just a hint of his chest. His hair is styled with an effortless grace, and his eyes, those infuriatingly beautiful eyes, are a beacon in the dim light.
He's talking to a woman, a beautiful blonde who is laughing at something he's said. So he is here talking to women when he has my daughter and me wrapped around his hands.
The sight of him, so perfect, so effortless, so in control, sends a wave of strong emotion through me. Jealousy, rage, a desire so potent it feels like a physical ache.
He sees me. The smirk returns. He gives the blonde a final, charming smile and excuses himself, walking toward me. He stops a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, the picture of nonchalant confidence.
"What a coincidence, Mr. Petrov," he says, his voice a low, teasing whisper. "Running into you here."
I clench my jaw, the ice in my glass rattling. "Don't call me that. You're playing a dangerous game, Leo. This whole thing you are doing will not just affect me but will affect you, I hope you are ready for the consequences."
He steps closer, the scent of his cologne, a clean, fresh scent with a hint of something deeper, something sensual, a subtle reminder of the night we spent together. "Am I? Or are you the one who's in danger? You seem… agitated. Oh and I am ready for the consequence if it means I will have you in my bed every night then fuck everything else."
I feel myself being turned on instantly by his words, the dark look in his eyes and the tone just drives me to the brim, I look away instantly.
"You're the one who sent the message," I say, my voice a whisper of pure venom. "What do you want? What's your game?"
He leans in, his face inches from mine. His eyes, in the dim light of the club, seem to hold all the secrets of the world. "There's no game, David. I just wanted to remind you. You're not the only one who can't sleep at night. I think of you more than I have ever done for anyone or anything. I imagine your hands on me, pounding into me, your eyes showing me that side of you that only I can bring out"
The words are a punch to the gut. He knows. He knows what this is doing to me. He knows I am losing control. He smiles, a slow, predatory smirk that sends a shiver down my spine.
"This is not a fairytale," he says, his voice a silky drawl. "It's a chess match. And I'm just getting started. I want to watch as you crumble and beg me, if you thought you are in control then please sign up for the next clown show"
He turns and walks away, melting back into the crowd. I stand there, frozen, the thrumming of the bass in the air, the beat of a new kind of war.
He is right. This isn't a fairytale. It's a game, and I have a feeling I'm losing.