Hatred burned hot—but so did something else.
Their arguments became sharper. Their silences heavier.
When he touched her wrist to stop her from leaving, the spark that jumped between them shocked them both.
"Don't," she warned.
"You're already mine," he replied.
She hated that her body reacted before her mind did.
Victoria learned that quickly.
It crept in during the quiet moments, during the pauses between arguments, during the silences that stretched too long and grew too heavy to ignore. It lived in the way Nyangtsi watched her when he thought she wasn't looking. In the way his presence filled a room even when he said nothing at all.
Their clashes became routine.
"You don't get to decide everything," she snapped one evening, pacing the living room like a caged animal.
"I already do," he replied calmly, seated, composed, unbothered. That infuriated her more than anger ever could.
"You're not a god."
"No," he said, eyes lifting slowly to meet hers. "But in this house, I might as well be."
She turned to leave then—she'd learned that staying too long only fed the fire—but his hand shot out and caught her wrist.
The contact was brief.
Electric.
The shock that raced through her wasn't pain—it was awareness. Sharp. Sudden. Dangerous.
"Don't," she warned, her voice low, breath uneven.
His grip tightened just enough to make his intent clear—not forceful, not gentle. Controlled.
"You're already mine," he said quietly.
The words should have repulsed her.
Instead, her body reacted before her mind could stop it.
Her pulse spiked. Her skin warmed beneath his touch. Her breath hitched, betraying everything she refused to say aloud.
She hated it.
Hated him.
Hated the way her fingers curled slightly, instinctively, against his wrist before she yanked her hand free.
Nyangtsi noticed.
Of course he did.
His eyes darkened—not with triumph, but with something far more dangerous. Interest. Recognition.
"You feel it too," he said.
"No," she lied instantly.
He stood, closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. "Your body doesn't lie, Victoria. It reacts. It remembers."
"I don't belong to you," she shot back, backing away until her spine met the wall.
"You signed otherwise," he replied calmly, stopping just short of touching her again. "But this—" His gaze dropped briefly to her lips, then returned to her eyes. "—this is not the contract."
Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
"This is manipulation," she whispered.
"Yes," he agreed. "And desire."
The word settled between them like a spark hovering over gasoline.
She pushed past him abruptly, needing air, space, control. "I won't be another weakness you exploit."
He turned his head slightly, watching her retreat. "Then stop reacting."
She froze.
Because she didn't know how.
That night, she couldn't sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt his fingers around her wrist again—not tight, not cruel, just certain. Every nerve in her body seemed awake, restless, aching in ways she refused to understand.
Across the penthouse, Nyangtsi stood at the window of his own room, city lights reflecting in his dark eyes.
He had planned for many things.
Her resistance. Her anger. Her hatred.
What he had not planned for was the way his control slipped the moment he touched her.
The way restraint suddenly felt like a test he wasn't sure he wanted to pass.
Because hatred was easy.
Power was familiar.
But desire?
Desire was unpredictable.
And Victoria Diva was becoming the most dangerous variable in his carefully constructed world.
Neither of them slept.
And both of them knew—without saying it aloud—that whatever burned between them was no longer just resentment.
It was a collision waiting to happen.
The next days blurred into a dangerous rhythm.
They circled each other like opponents who knew every strike could be fatal. Conversations were sharp, precise, cutting just deep enough to draw blood without ending the fight. Victoria learned how to provoke him with words alone—how a lifted brow or a deliberately calm tone could tighten his jaw, how silence could unsettle him more than shouting ever did.
And Nyangtsi learned her tells.
The way her shoulders stiffened when she was afraid but refused to show it.
The way her voice softened when she was exhausted.
The way her eyes flashed when she felt cornered—and how that flash thrilled her even as it terrified her.
"You're testing me," he said one evening as they stood in the kitchen, tension crackling between them.
"Maybe I'm reminding you I'm still here," she replied coolly. "Not a pawn. Not a possession."
He stepped closer, invading her space without touching her this time. "You're many things," he said. "None of them weak."
Her breath caught despite herself.
She hated that he saw her. Hated that some part of her wanted him to.
The penthouse felt smaller every day. Not because of the walls—but because of him. Because his presence lingered even when he wasn't in the room. Because she found herself listening for his footsteps, anticipating his voice, bracing for his gaze.
And because when he wasn't near, she felt it.
The absence.
It frightened her more than his control ever had.
One night, a storm rolled in—thunder cracking across the sky, rain lashing the glass walls like an accusation. Victoria stood at the window, arms wrapped around herself, watching the city drown in light and shadow.
"You're restless," Nyangtsi said from behind her.
She didn't turn. "You make people restless."
He moved closer, stopping just behind her. Not touching. Never touching when it mattered most.
"You could ask me to leave," he said quietly.
She laughed under her breath. "You wouldn't."
"No," he admitted. "I wouldn't."
The honesty sent a shiver through her.
"You enjoy this," she said. "Watching me struggle."
"I enjoy watching you adapt," he corrected. "Struggle implies weakness."
She turned then, anger flaring bright and sharp. "You think breaking people makes them stronger?"
"I think," he said calmly, "pressure reveals what already exists."
The storm thundered again, louder this time.
"Then what do you see when you look at me?" she asked.
His gaze dropped to her mouth before returning to her eyes. "A woman who hasn't decided whether she wants to fight me… or stand beside me."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"I would never stand beside you," she whispered.
"Not yet," he said.
The words felt like a promise. Or a threat.
She stepped away abruptly, needing space, needing distance from the way her body leaned toward him even as her mind screamed no. She retreated to her room, locking the door behind her, pressing her back against it as if that could keep him out of her thoughts.
It didn't.
Sleep came in fragments. Half-dreams filled with his voice, his hands, his control. She woke more than once with her heart racing, heat curling low in her stomach, furious at herself for wanting what she should despise.
Across the penthouse, Nyangtsi sat awake in the dark.
He told himself this was temporary. That desire was a weakness he would master like any other. That Victoria Diva was simply another problem to be managed, another variable to contain.
But when he closed his eyes, all he saw was the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't watching—defiant, wounded, alive.
And for the first time in years, control didn't feel absolute.
Morning came with tension still humming beneath the surface.
They met in the hallway, both stopping short at the same time. Too close again. Always too close.
Her gaze flicked to his hand. His to hers.
For a split second, neither of them moved.
Then he stepped back.
The restraint was deliberate.
And somehow… that was worse.
Because now they both understood the truth they were no longer pretending to ignore:
The line between hatred and desire had already been crossed.
And the next time one of them reached out—
Neither would pull away.