fighting him

JaneVera’s POV

But I sat. I let her paint me perfectly, knowing the second this night ended he would destroy every careful stroke of it with his mouth, his hands, and his cock.

Xandra lifted a foundation brush, then paused, eyes flicking past me.

“Uh… a little privacy?” she asked, half-laughing, half-nervous.

Caesar didn’t answer with words. He prowled forward instead, slow, until his shadow swallowed the vanity lights. He bent over the back of my chair, one big hand curling possessively around my throat from behind, not squeezing, just claiming. Then he leaned down and kissed the corner of my mouth, slow, filthy, open-mouthed, right where he’d painted my own arousal minutes ago. His tongue traced the seam of my lips, tasting me on me, tasting himself, a low growl rumbling in his chest that vibrated straight through my spine.

Xandra’s brush froze mid-air.

He pulled back just far enough for our eyes to lock in the mirror, his blown wide and feral, mine glassy with need. Then he smirked, wicked and slow, and blew me the most exaggerated, obscene kiss I’d ever seen, lips pursed, eyes promising ruin.

“Make her lethal,” he told Xandra without breaking eye contact with me. “I want Neven to choke on his own tongue the second she walks in.”

A final squeeze to my throat, possessive, perfect and he straightened. Barefoot, shirtless, and utterly unashamed, he sauntered to the door. It clicked shut behind him with soft finality.

The room felt suddenly colder.

Xandra let out a shaky laugh. “Jesus. Does he always leave scorch marks, or is that just for you?”

I licked my bottom lip, still tasting myself, still tasting him.

“Just for me,” I whispered.

Then I straightened in the chair, met my own reflection, and smiled slightly.

“Make me lethal,” I said. Because tonight wasn’t about Neven.

Tonight was about walking into that room like a queen…and letting Caesar drag me out the second he decided his queen needed to be fucked like a slut again.

Xandra waited two beats, then let out a low, appreciative whistle.

“Lord have mercy,” she muttered, shaking her head like she still couldn’t get over what had just happened between me and Caesar. The air in the room still felt charged, thick with the scent of him on my skin and the echo of his voice in my ears.

She turned me away from the mirror to face her, pulled another chair over, and sat right in front of me. For the next twenty minutes she worked in focused silence, smoky, sultry eyes that made mine look like they held every secret in the world, razor-sharp contour that carved my cheekbones into something regal, and lips painted a deep, dangerous blood-red that screamed trouble. Then she took the flat iron to my hair, turning it into sleek, glossy waves that spilled down my back like liquid obsidian.

When she finally spun the chair back toward the mirror, I forgot how to breathe. I looked expensive.

“All done,” she said, proud, stepping back to admire her work. “Now for the dress.”

I opened my mouth to tell her I didn’t have anything even close to suitable for an engagement party and Caesar sure as hell didn’t own women’s couture but she was already moving.

Xandra’s smile turned positively devilish.“Come with me.”

She led me to the floor-to-ceiling wardrobe that swallowed an entire wall. One dramatic tug and the mirrored doors slid apart with a whisper, revealing a walk-in closet that looked like a private wing of a Paris couture house.

My jaw actually dropped. It wasn’t just a closet. It was a fucking boutique, a private, high-end, celebrity-level shrine to excess hidden inside Caesar’s bedroom.

Rows of designer gowns hung like museum pieces, silk, satin, velvet, feathers, crystals, every color imaginable catching the soft recessed lighting like they were alive. Shelves of heels red-soled Louboutins, crystal-studded Jimmy Choos, razor-sharp Saint Laurents glittered like treasure. Glass cases sparkled with jewelry that probably cost more than most people’s houses, rivers of diamonds, emeralds the size of thumbnails, ropes of pearls that looked like they belonged to royalty. There was even a full-length, three-way mirror framed in rose gold and a velvet chaise in the center, as if models came here to be dressed for the Met Gala.

I stood frozen in the doorway, barefoot on the plush carpet, the towel still wrapped around me like some half-hearted joke that had long outlived its punchline.

“How the hell…?” I breathed, my fingers brushing the sleeve of a crystal-embellished gown that probably cost more than a car, hell, more than most people’s apartments.

Xandra just shrugged and grinned, already flicking through hangers like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

“Every season he wires me an obscene amount and tells me to refresh the whole thing,” she said casually, like she was talking about picking up coffee. “New collections, new trends, new everything. I always thought it was insane for a single guy to keep an entire women’s wardrobe on standby, but…”

She glanced back at me, eyes soft, almost gentle.

“You’re the first woman he’s ever let inside it. Not one girlfriend, not one fling, not even family. Just you.”

My heart stuttered, hard.

“You must be special to him,” she added quietly.

I scoffed inwardly. Special?

No. I'm just a seven-day contract to him. A very well-paid fantasy. A living, breathing sex toy with an expiration date stamped on my skin.

This isn't special. This is… convenient. A perk for spreading my legs and saying yes.

I swallowed the sudden, bitter lump in my throat. “So… which one?” I asked, forcing my voice steady.

Xandra pulled out the first gown, held it up to me, and shook her head. “No. Too soft.”

Her smile turned sharp, “We need something that’ll make your ex choke on his own tongue.”And the hunt began.