3

Camilla

I stare at him, my pulse a vicious drumbeat, my breath choking on a scream I’ll never let him hear. This asshole of a man who’s somehow both infuriatingly reckless and dangerously controlled, lounging opposite me like he’s just offered up the universe and expects gratitude for his charity.

Fifty-grand.

Dropped casually, insultingly easy. Like tipping the valet. Like sliding bills beneath a stripper’s waistband. Like my pride is just another thing he can buy and discard without a second thought.

He watches me, eyes calm, cruel, endlessly patient. Waiting for the first tremor, the smallest flinch.

No, this isn't some clumsy gossip columnist trying to bait an easy headline. He’s something else entirely…dangerous, deliberate. Calculated violence hiding beneath tailored shirts and an arrogant smirk. The kind of man who treats power like currency, and everyone around him as either pawn or prey.

My gaze sharpens, dissecting him piece by brutal piece. Everything about him screams ruthless control, from the expensive watch glinting at his wrist, to the practiced ease of how he sprawls in that chair, occupying space like he owns it. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing tattoos snaking around his forearms, dark and hypnotic, whispering stories I suddenly find myself wanting to read.

He tilts his head slightly, amused by my silence. "Trying to figure me out, princess? I'll save you the trouble. I'm exactly as bad as you think, probably worse."

"You flatter yourself," I say coldly, resisting the urge to dig my nails into my palm. "I was just deciding if your arrogance is compensation for something."

His smile grows sharper, eyes darkening, a predator tasting first blood. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely intertwined. Closer now, close enough that his scent, rich and maddening, fills my senses.

"Careful," he warns softly, my name a deliberate caress dripping with menace and temptation. "You're staring a little too long to pretend you're uninterested."

"I stare at train wrecks, too," I retort evenly, ignoring the tightening sensation deep in my stomach. "Doesn't mean I want to climb aboard."

“The ride’s worth the crash, Camila.” He drawls, voice pitched low, dripping with wicked humor.

“You know my name.”

His smile deepens, slow and predatory. “I know a lot more than your name, princesa.”

Something cold crawls down my spine, followed by heat, dark, delicious heat, coiling tight between my thighs.

This man is trouble, raw and unfiltered.

And I’m sitting here, letting him slowly peel away every careful layer I’ve spent my life building.

“Fifty thousand,” I repeat softly, tilting my head. “For one night?”

He doesn’t even blink. “One night.”

My lips twitch slightly. A smirk I let him see. “Insultingly low.”

Surprise flickers in his eyes, brief, bright, gone in a heartbeat, and then he smiles. Really smiles, slow and wicked and utterly lethal.

“There she is,” he whispers, leaning forward once more. “Now give me your real price.”

I hold his stare, blood racing beneath the skin. Something reckless rises inside me. Something wild, buried beneath my breeding and good manners, clawing its way out. “More than you can afford.”

His eyes gleam, savage and hungry. “Try me.”

I should walk away.

That’s what a Sutton woman would do. What my mother would expect. What my father, Prescott would demand.

But I’m not built like them.

Not tonight.

Not with his voice still staining the air like smoke, like sin. Not with my thighs tight, my spine rigid, my skin prickling with the kind of awareness no amount of pedigree can suffocate.

He said fifty thousand.

Like I’m for sale.

Like he could buy a night and own me forever in his memory.

Fine.

Let’s see how deep his pockets really go.

I lean forward, slow and smooth, resting my elbows on the table, mirroring his earlier pose. My eyes lock to his, and I let him see it, the spark. The shift. The wicked thing uncoiling inside me that’s sick of being good.

“One hundred thousand,” I say, voice like satin and shards. “Half up front. Cash only.”

His jaw ticks, barely. But I see it. The quiet thrill beneath his calm. The flash of hunger he doesn’t bother to hide.

“And for that,” I go on, lips curving slightly, “you get exactly one night. One room. No names. No small talk. Just your hands on my skin and your mouth shut.”

He lets out a low breath, something between a growl and a chuckle. “That’s cute.”

“No,” I say, leaning closer. “That’s the cost of fucking a Sutton.”

His eyes blaze now, dark and bottomless, storm-wrecked seas with no horizon. He tilts his head like he’s trying to decide whether to kiss me or rip my throat out.

“Tell me something, princesa…” he murmurs, voice rough now, hoarse like the edge of something undone. “Is that the real price? Or are you just trying to see how far I’ll bend to prove I want you?”

I smile. Not sweetly.

This one’s all teeth.

“You’re the one who made an offer,” I whisper, low enough for only him to hear. “I’m just raising the stakes.”

He leans in, so close now I can smell him, something dark and expensive, leather and danger and the kind of man who burns better women than me for sport.

“Then here’s my counter,” he says, his tone dropping, deadly-soft. “Two hundred thousand.”

My breath catches, barely.

He sees it.

“Cash. Tonight. And I don’t shut my mouth, Camila.” His gaze drops to my lips. “You beg with that mouth.”

The table between us feels like a joke now. A flimsy barrier trying to contain something inevitable.

My pulse pounds so hard it almost drowns out the strings from the ballroom beyond.

“You really think you can afford me?” I whisper.

His smirk turns cruel.

“Oh, baby. I already paid in full. You just haven’t figured out the currency yet.”

My pulse skips, then slams.

Hard.

Right in the base of my throat.

I should’ve stood. Should’ve rolled my eyes. Should’ve walked away in disgust, maybe with one last clever remark tossed over my shoulder just to make him ache.

But I don’t.

Because some sick, shadowed part of me, the part no one talks about at galas or bridal showers or champagne fundraisers, likes this.

The part that’s starved.

That’s tired of polite hands and soft kisses. Of silk sheets and emotionless I love you from men who don't even make eye contact when they come.

The part of me that wants to be seen.

And not the curated version. Not Sutton PR.

Me.

The girl underneath the silk and etiquette.

The one who’s been begging, silently screaming, for someone to rip this life open and ask nothing but everything in return.

He sits there, lounging in his arrogance, watching me like he’s already conquered me. Like he's already sunk his hands beneath my skin and tugged at the hidden thread I've kept from everyone else.

And God help me…I want him to.

“I see,” I murmur, voice dripping sweetness and venom, my mind flipping between the urge to straddle him or knee him square in the balls.

His eyes darken, glittering with desire and challenge as if he’d welcome both.

“So, what happens if I say yes?”

“Then you'd better mean it,” he says, voice dangerously soft. “I won’t take refunds.”

“I’m not exactly a return-to-sender type of girl,” I say, holding his gaze, fire simmering beneath my carefully sculpted mask.

His eyes trail downward deliberately, slowly drinking in the body wrapped in silk, and for one wild, reckless second, I want him to rip the dress off me with his teeth.

“Good,” he drawls, leaning forward slightly, predatory, devastating. “Because I don’t exactly play nice with my toys.”

My breath catches, sharp and betraying, but I don't flinch. I lift my chin defiantly, pride and anger scorching my veins. “I’m nobody’s toy.”

“You’re somebody’s,” he whispers softly, dangerously, pinning me with a stare that strips me raw. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Anger pulses in my chest, mixing violently with intrigue and hunger. “And you think that somebody is you?”

“I know it is,” he growls, leaning closer, voice edged with menace and temptation. “You’ve been waiting your entire life for a man who won’t apologize for all the filthy, depraved things he plans to do to you. You’re exhausted from being polished, pretty, and safe. From smiling on the arm of men who couldn’t handle you if their lives depended on it. You’re aching to know how it feels when someone fists your hair and makes you beg like it’s the only thing you were born to do.”

My lips part involuntarily, pulse wild in my throat, but I hold his gaze, daring him to keep unraveling my secrets.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I whisper, voice trembling despite my best efforts.