I can’t help the smile on my face, and the minute she turns around, my eyes are on her ass, because that dress clings to every inch of her like it was made for her and her alone. My little angel, built for sinning. All I can think, with a certainty that lives in my bones, is that I want to feed her every inch of me.
My stupid cock stirs, like an old dog sniffing bacon.
The restaurant is all polished glass and low morning light, the kind of quiet, expensive calm that exists to convince people they are safe, and I position myself beside Seraphina with instinctive precision, my chair angled just enough that I can see both her and the room beyond, while Chace takes the seat opposite, his posture loose but his eyes alert, giving himself the advantage of the wider view.
A waitress appears and pours coffee for us, her smile professional and fleeting, and I thank her absently before my attention drifts back to my wife, because she is sitting there with her hand turned slightly under the light, her fingers twisting slowly as she watches the diamond catch and fracture the morning sun, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and awe, like she still hasn’t accepted that something so beautiful belongs to her.
I don’t think she realizes that I’m watching her instead.
That I would always choose watching her.
That I would alwayschooseher. We’ve just finished breakfast, the kind that stretches out longer than it should, where nobody’s in a rush to leave because for once nothing is actively on fire.
I’m still half-leaned back in my chair, Sera close enough that I can feel her beside me, when I notice a woman approaching the table.
“Valentino. I would recognize the boy who broke the head off my Barbie and threw me out of his treehouse anywhere.”
The voice cuts cleanly across the moment.
I pause with my coffee halfway to my mouth, my brows lifting as I glance toward Chace, already seeing the shift in him, the way his attention sharpens, the way his eyes find the woman standing just beside our table.Chace lowers his cup slowly, his mouth curving into something that almost resembles surprise. It’s a look I have not seen all that much from by brother from another mother, he looked almost… unsure?
“Elena.”
He says her name easily.
Familiar. Elena stands just over five-six, the kind of height that’s noticeable without being intimidating, early twenties but carrying herself with the precision of someone much older, someone who’s learned quickly how to be seen and remembered. Her skin is bronze, the kind that looks like it’s always kissed by the sun, warm and rich, the kind that makes every shadow a little deeper, every highlight catch like fire. Dark hair falls straight and heavy down her back, the kind that gleams in any light, framing a face with sharp, deliberate features—dark, calculating eyes rimmed by impossibly long lashes that could almost distract from the tension coiled behind them.
Slim, taut, but with curves that read lethal in the right light, she wears a white dress that hugs every line of her body, falling just to her knees, simple and elegant, but impossibly controlled in its power. Layered gold necklaces catch the sun’s reflection along her collarbone, gold rings glint on her fingers, a quiet shimmer that hints at wealth and authority and a life where nothing is given and everything is claimed. She moveswith precision, her posture perfect, her gaze always measuring, always aware.
This is a woman born to be seen, born to command attention, born to remind you that even beauty can carry the weight of danger. “What brings you to Las Vegas?” Elena asks.
“Business,” he adds smoothly. “And if I recall, your baby sister was bleeding and you—”
She laughs, the sound warm and unapologetic.
“Yes, yes. Anastasia was crying. I was the villain.”
“Exactly.”
He leans back in his chair, studying her with open casualness, but I know him well enough to recognize the calculation beneath it, the quiet assessment of threat and value and memory all happening at once.
“Elena!” A younger voice interrupts, and a girl appears at Elena’s side, all sharp, nervous energy. She’s slim and athletic, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail that swings with every step, dark and glossy, practical but polished, the kind of style that says she’s ready for anything without needing to announce it. Her cheerleader uniform clings in all the right ways for agility rather than display, the team colors painted boldly across her cheeks in streaks of pride, the emblem stitched across her chest, and her stance carries a quiet confidence, the subtle tilt of her shoulders and the lift of her chin marking her as someone who’s learned early how to be seen and counted. “Please tell me you have my phone.”
Elena sighs, already reaching into her bag.
“Yes, Anastasia, and if you text that boy back, I’ll tell Father.”
The effect is immediate.
The girl pales.
Fear.
Real fear.
“You don’t want to anger him, Ana,” Elena continues lightly, before gesturing toward Chace. “Do you remember Valentino?”
Anastasia’s eyes lift.
