Is the caller the same person Raffael spoke to earlier? The one he said wasn’t welcome? The reason he declared I was under his protection?
Then again, it could be my father, finally reaching out in a blaze of parental concern—millions in leveraged debt, one sold daughter, and a near-death experience too late.
Curiosity bleeds into my rage. A glimmer of unhinged impulsivity sharpens the edge.
I test the doorknob. Find it unlocked.
Stealing his phone mid-shower isn’t a great plan. But neither was trusting my father. Or believing my CEO title meant I’d earned a seat at the table when all it did was dress up my leash with a prettier chain.
I’m still just a woman.
Decorative. Undermined. Disposable.
Fuck them all.
The phone gives another low-grade buzz. Then silence. The call ends.
Shit.
Only the static hiss of the shower remains as I stare at the door, cursing myself, my shoulders hunching from the shame of hesitation. Of flinching. Of acting like a good girl when a man would’ve already kicked the door down.
All I want is answers. The briefest insight into a game where I’m oblivious to the rules.
It’s literally my job. I discover hidden agendas. Dissect motives. Peel back glossy exteriors to expose the rot beneath. I’ve built a career out of knowing when something doesn’t add up. And right now, the math with Raffael isn’t mathing.
The phone buzzes again, like a loaded gun daring me to pull the trigger.
He snaps another curse.
This time I don’t hesitate.
I twist the doorknob and stride inside, ready to tear through secrets—only to stop dead in my tracks.
Raffael stands under the spray, one hand braced against the tile, the other around the hard length of his cock.
I blink. Swallow.
He’s carved marble. Beauty and violence sculpted into man. The picture of ruinous temptation as our eyes lock.
“You lost, Cross?” He glares. “Or simply waiting for another rejection?”
My cheeks flame, humiliation and vehemence clashing in a visceral spark. I stalk forward and snatch the vibrating cell off the vanity—Eliseo’s name illuminated on screen.
“Drop it,” Raffael snarls, wrenching off the water.
I raise a defiant brow and stride from the room, slamming the door shut behind me.
“Isla,” he roars.
I return to my own bathroom and lock myself inside as the wet slap of his feet hit the hallway floor.
A second later,boom—something collides with the wood.
I gasp, my bravery temporarily waylaid, before I spin and dart for the second door—the walk-in-closet, with access to the main cabin—and lock that, too.
“Open the fucking door,” he warns.
I breathe through the adrenaline spike, blocking out the inner voice that screams that this is it—my crowning act of lunacy—and swipe the cell screen to answer.
