“I don’t like the word,” she muttered. “It feels like I’m taking advantage of you. And I’m not.”
I care too much about you to do that. Say it, Sofia. Say it.
She didn’t.
A smirk curled on his lips. He had shaved just enough to leave a trace of stubble, and he looked like sin.
“So, you care about me, huh?” he teased, his voice low, amused, but something darker flickered beneath it, something hungry.
“Yes,” she said. Quiet. Firm.
He leaned in a little, biting his bottom lip in that way that made her stomach dip. “Good. Because I care a lot about you.” Then, more serious: “I’ll help you with your little vendetta,habiba. But if you ever leave me for him…” He gave her a mock tut and shook his head, “…I’ll become your worst enemy.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Is that a possibility?”
“No.” She held his gaze. “I have zero interest in ever pursuing anything with Thomas again.”
“Good girl.”
Por dios. The way he growled that with his eyes half-lidded and full of wicked promise?
Her thighs clenched. Her breath hitched. She barely stopped herself from making a sound.
She fumbled with her matcha, clearing her throat just as they shifted the conversation to what Jamie had sent them: questions for the upcoming interview. Most of them would focus on their “love story” and social media presence, not her actual scientific work.
Meanwhile, Thomas would be presenting the research she had done. Her heart ached at the unfairness. She couldn’t even share her findings publicly, not without triggering lawsuits. Her scientific pride felt crushed under her heels.
Thankfully, Elvira had been updating her with recordings, sending progress reports to their father, who—according to their mom and sister—seemed livelier than he’d been in a long time. That calmed the storm in her mind, made her feel slightly less like a terrible daughter.
Then Ilias stiffened. His eyes darkened, murder flashing through them as he looked past her.
She turned, and there he was.
Thomas.
Tailored suit, tight tie, perfectly styled hair… and still tasteless as ever. That try-hard American kitsch. She had tried to guide him toward European fashion once upon a time. He’d refused.
Red flag number one.
You can have money. You can’t buy style. Not like Ilias, who looked like sex on a stick just existing.
“What the fuck do you want?” Ilias snapped, voice sharp and low.
Protective Ilias was dangerously hot.
Thomas stopped by their table, hands in his pockets like he owned the place.
“Sofia,” he said, ignoring Ilias completely. “Can we speak in private, without your bodyguard?”
“I’m her boyfriend,” Ilias growled.
“And anything you want to say,” Sofia added, “you can say in front of him.”
“Can we just be civil for once?” Thomas sighed dramatically.
“I wasn’t the one who started acting like a child.”
