CHAPTER 3- JUST ONE KISS

             “Those fucking bastards!”

              Montez De Vitalio spat through gritted teeth, slamming the door behind him with a force that echoed like a slap. Enzo Ricci, his PA and long-time friend, hastened his steps to keep up with him.

              Montez’s jaw flexed, hand curling into fists. The sharp click of his custom Italian shoes reverberated across the marble floor as he sprinted toward the valet. Fury rolled off his shoulders in waves.

             Three deals rejected! In the space of one goddamn week and all because of her. Every investor he spoke with had opted out of their business dealings, citing his recent involvement in court with that pesky little journalist. It was infuriating.

             Outside, his bodyguard held the door to the backseat open, and Montez slid into the black Lamborghini Aventador, the leather interior welcoming him like a lover who demanded no explanations. Enzo joined him a moment later, clicking his seatbelt ever cautiously, as always.

            The driver started the engine. The roar of the V12 was the only music Montez needed.

           “Signore,” Enzo sighed. “You mustn’t get too worked up. Those men might have been slightly unreasonable—”

            “Cowards is what they are,” Montez growled, cutting him off. “Spineless, weak bastards who are too scared to shake hands with a man just because he’s been in court over a woman.” He scoffed, the word dripping with venom.

            “Can we blame them?” Enzo shrugged, frustration etched on his face. “Miss Santis sued you for tax fraud, money laundering, and most of all—murder.”

            “And I was proven not guilty, wasn’t I?” Montez ran a hand through his hair, equally stressed. “That nosy, manipulative, second-rate journalist is ruining everything I built with my own hands. Damn it! I should have done more than blacklist her career. I should have destroyed her the second she opened that stupid mouth of hers.”

            Enzo watched him cautiously. “It’s not all bad, boss. Tomorrow, we’re heading back to the capital. You’ll have full control of the board again and with enough damage control—”

             “I don’t want damage control, Enzo,” Montez snapped, sharply cutting him off. “I want that puny little bitch gone!”

      

             A heavy silence settled over the car.

            “She’s everywhere,” Montez muttered, quieter now. “It’s not just TV and socials anymore. Now she’s crept into my business affairs too.”

            “Are you suggesting—?”

            “You know what to do. I don’t have to spell it out.” His eyes dimmed. “Get rid of the problem once and for all. Damn it, I should have done this from the very start.”

           Enzo nodded. “It’s settled.”

           They pulled into the crescent driveway of The Gilded Swan, the most prestigious hotel in all of Belmare. It was modern luxury wrapped in golden sandstone and glass. Montez’s guards held the door open for him and he stepped out like he owned the place. Which he did. At least half of it. There wasn’t a city in the country he didn’t have investments in.

               He stalked into the grand lobby, not bothering to wait for Enzo. The concierge greeted him with the usual bright smile until he saw Montez’s face. One look and the man handed him his keycard and arranged for a premium bottle of scotch to be sent to his private VIP suite before Montez reached the elevator.

             The ride up was silent. Too silent. But Montez needed noise. Chaos. Anything to stop him from thinking about the upcoming press conference… or her.

              His suite was immaculate, bathed in dim golden light and the faint scent of cedarwood. He threw off his suit, rolled up his sleeves, and yanked his tie from his neck in one swift pull before popping a few buttons.

             He grabbed the scotch from the table, uncorked the bottle, and poured himself a glass, desperate to drown out reality. Then another. And another. By the time he stumbled into the bathroom, his head was buzzing.

             Steam fogged the mirror as he stepped into the shower, letting hot water scald his skin, trying to burn away the rage simmering inside him. He wanted his life back. His kind of business didn’t thrive in the chaos Amira Santis had dragged into his world. He needed her gone. Out of his life. Out of his head. Out of his orbit.

            Amira Santis… the brown skinned demon with tousled dark hair running down her shoulders. Atleast that was his last memory of her at the final hearing in court. Her name rang like an awful bell in his head. No one had dared challenge him like she had. And she’d be the last. She had to be.

              When he stepped out, towel slung low on his hips, reaching for another drink, he froze, eyes wide.

               She was there.

               No—not her. But a woman. Slender. Petite. Dressed in a maid’s uniform, frozen mid-step like she’d seen a ghost. His mind was fuzzy from the alcohol but sharp enough to catch her scent just like that day outside the courtroom.

               Why did this woman look so much like Amira? Damn it. If only his vision wasn’t so foggy. He began stalking toward her. Her eyes widened as she took in his damp hair, water dripping down his chest. She stumbled back and hit the edge of the desk. Trapped.

               “Who the hell are you?” he asked, voice low, rough, and annoyed.

                 “I—I…” Her lips parted, trembling. “I came to change the sheets. I didn’t—I thought—this room was unoccupied. I didn’t know—”

                 Something in him snapped. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe the week he’d had. Or maybe it was her eyes.

                Without thinking, he moved. His palm hit the desk beside her waist. She gasped. His towel slipped lower. Her breath hitched.

               “You should know better than to trespass on a man like me,” he whispered, hot breath fanning her cheeks. “Or…” He cocked his head. “…are you here for something else?”

               “Screw you!” she flared. That tone. That fire. He recognized that rage but from where?

               “This was a mistake. I had no idea—I’d never—” She didn’t finish.

               He didn’t let her as he grabbed her chin, tilting her face to his. He’d had the worst goddamn week of his life and drowning in scotch wasn’t enough.

   

               Before she could breathe, his lips crashed onto hers. Rough and messy. Her fists pressed to his chest, but he was immovable. Her lips trembled beneath his, her body too, but she tasted like guilt, innocence, and honey.

              His arms wrapped around her waist, crushing her body against his. She was intoxicating. More than the scotch.

              Then she shoved him. Hard.

               He stumbled back, heart pounding like he’d just run a marathon.

               “You son of a bitch!” Her voice quivered. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

               Before he could react, she was gone. The door slammed behind her. And just like that, he snapped back. What the actual fuck just happened?

               He had never broken composure like that in his life. Suddenly, the alcohol wore off like acid down his throat. His mind reeled back violently. Just who the hell was she?

                He stared at the door, tugging at his hair in frustration, chest heaving. But all he could think about was her blurry face and those lips.

              Something about that staff member was horrifyingly familiar. Too familiar. It sent chills down his spine and he didn’t get chills.

             It was like kissing a ghost he should never have touched.

             Then, his eyes widened as his consciousness snapped clear.

             “No,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”

              But her scent lingered. And in his gut, he knew.

                 He had just kissed the one woman he vowed to destroy.

                Amira Santis.