The silence in my room felt like an insult. I hated silence; it forced me to hear the sound of my own breathing—a constant reminder that I was still human, still vulnerable, still hungry. But when I closed my eyes, the silence died. In the darkness of my mind, the Cavalcanti empire was already in flames, and I was the only one allowed to dance naked over the ashes.
I lay there, feeling the cold sweat cling my cheap silk nightgown to my skin, but in my head, I wasn't in that suburban apartment. I was on the 45th floor of Cavalcanti Corp. And there he was. Lorenzo Cavalcanti.
In my delusion, I wore nothing. I was nothing but skin, desire, and hatred. I saw him sitting in that leather chair, and the scent of him—tobacco, whiskey, and raw power—flooded my senses. In reality, my hands slid frantically down my body, squeezing my own breasts hard, imagining they were Lorenzo's large, cruel hands claiming me.
I felt the heat between my legs become a wildfire. My fingers dived into my core, finding me drenched, pulsing with the image of him pinning me against the massive glass window. I imagined the contrast: the cold crystal against my back and the raw heat of Lorenzo's body invading me, possessing me with the same violence he used to destroy my father.
— "Say my name, Lorenzo..." — I moaned into the emptiness of the room, my voice fading as I accelerated the rhythm of my fingers against my swollen clitoris.
I wanted to feel his heart race against my chest; I wanted to see the great CEO reduced to a beast in heat, a slave to the wetness between my thighs that throbbed for revenge. The pleasure came like an electric explosion, a spasm that arched my body and made me claw at my own thighs. At the peak of the orgasm, I didn't see love; I saw his fall. I came to his name as if I were spitting on his grave.
I opened my eyes. The peeling ceiling returned. The clock read 07:00 AM.
"Today is the day," my voice came out hoarse, laced with a dark pleasure.
I got up and went to the bathroom. The shower was a war ritual. The hot water hit my shoulders, but I focused on preparing myself. I applied lotion slowly, feeling every curve I would use as a trap. I chose the most provocative black lace lingerie I owned; the bra could barely contain the volume of my breasts, leaving the contour of my nipples sharp and prominent, ready to distract any man who dared to look at me.
My lipstick was blood-red. I wanted to look like an open, irresistible wound.
An hour later, I was in the lobby of Cavalcanti Corp. Every step of my stiletto heels was a precision shot against the marble. I felt the gazes of the men—and even the women—glued to me, sliding down my generous cleavage, tracking the sway of my hips. That was oxygen to a narcissist.
Then, the private elevator opened. Lorenzo.
He passed just a few feet from me. The air grew heavy. Our eyes met for an eternal second. I didn't look away. I held his gaze with a purely sexual insolence, letting him see the fire in my eyes and the promise of perdition in my smile. He felt the shock. The predator recognized the threat, but the man... the man felt the lust.
He kept walking, but I knew: the hook was buried deep in his flesh.
"You may go up, Ms. Martins. Mr. Arthur is expecting you," the receptionist said.
I stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed, I saw my reflection in the polished metal. I wasn't an employee. I was the ruin. And Arthur Cavalcanti would be just the first meal to whet my appetite.