Chapter 5 Blocked

Chapter 5

Ryan

I stare at my phone for ten minutes after she blocks me, trying to make sense of what just happened.

Last night, she was fire in my arms. This morning, she woke me with her mouth on my cock and then rode me like she was claiming me. Two hours ago, she was crying out my name as she came apart beneath me.

Now she's gone like she was never here at all.

Except she was. The sheets still smell like her—jasmine and something darker, more complex. Her taste is still on my tongue. I can still feel the ghost of her short nails digging into my shoulders.

It's impossible.

What the fuck does that mean?

I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, turning the water cold enough to shock some sense into me. I should let this go. Should chalk it up to an incredible one night stand and move on with my life.

Should, but I won't.

she's gotten under my skin. Made me feel something I haven't felt in years. Maybe ever.

Hope.

I dry off and dress in workout clothes, planning to hit the gym and punch something until my knuckles bleed and I stop thinking about dark eyes and desperate kisses.

My phone rings. Father.

Perfect fucking timing.

"Ryan. Where were you last night?"

Lorenzo Zurri doesn't waste time on pleasantries.

"Out. Why?"

"We had a family dinner. You missed it."

"I wasn't aware I was required to attend."

"You're always required to attend.Especially now. The Rossi situation is escalating."

Rossi. The name registers dimly they're the competition for the docklands development. Old Cape Town money trying to block our expansion.

"What's changed?"

"Antonio Rossi is playing dirty. He's got his media people crafting narratives, positioning us as vultures, them as saviors." Father sounds almost impressed. "It's elegant work. Whoever's running their PR campaign knows what they're doing."

Something about that niggles at my brain. I traffic in narratives. I take messy, complicated realities and turn them into stories people can believe in.

No. Coincidence. Cape Town is full of PR people.

"What do you need from me?"

"I need you visible. Charming. Reminding people that the Zurris aren't monsters, that we're investing in this city's future.I need you to find out who's running Rossi's PR operation. Find their weaknesses. Exploit them."

"I'm not going to..."

"You're going to do what's necessary for this family, Ryan. Just like you always do." His voice goes cold. "Or have you forgotten who made you? What you owe?"

I close my eyes. There it is. The chain I've worn my whole life.

"I haven't forgotten."

"Good. Family meeting tonight, seven sharp. Don't be late. A

Ryan? Wear a suit. We're having guests."

He hangs up before I can ask who.

I sit on the edge of my bed,the bed where Stella and I mapped each other's bodies, where she told me truths without telling me anything at all and try to reconcile my life with the man I was last night.

Just Ryan. Not Lorenzo Zurri's son. Not the heir. Not the weapon my father points at his enemies.

Just Ryan, who met a woman in a bar and felt real for the first time in years.

My phone buzzes. A text from Marco, my cousin and closest friend: Heard you missed dinner. Dad's pissed. What's her name?

I almost smile. Marco knows me too well.

Doesn't matter. It's over.

Over before it started? That's not like you.

She made it clear it was one night only.

And you're just accepting that? The Ryan I know doesn't give up that easily.

The Ryan you know doesn't have a choice.

There's always a choice, cousin. Question is whether you're brave enough to make it.

I stare at his message. He's right, of course. But what he doesn't understand is that some choices come with consequences I'm not willing to risk.

Not when they might hurt her.

I pull up a browser and start searching. Nothing specific—just casting a wide net. Looking for women in Cape Town PR. Media consultants. Anyone who fits the profile of the intelligent, elegant, trapped-by-family woman I spent the night with.

It's a long shot. A very long shot. But I'm good at research, good at finding patterns, and I have time before tonight's meeting.

Four hours later, I've got a list of twenty possibilities. Most are too old, too young, or too public for someone who guards her identity so carefully. But three stand out.

One works for a major firm—possible, but she seemed more independent.

One is a freelancer with no social media presence—interesting, but no familyl connections I can find.

And one... one is perfect. Almost too perfect.

Maya Rossi. Daughter of Antonio Rossi. Twenty-eight years old. Head of Media Relations for the Cape Town Falcons hockey team.

Which is owned by the Rossi family.

My blood runs cold.

I click through to her professional photos. Dark hair pulled back severely. Sharp, intelligent eyes. Beautiful in that controlled, untouchable way.

It could be her. The bone structure is right. But in these photos, she looks nothing like my Stella—all ice where Stella was fire, all armor where Stella was vulnerability.

I dig deeper. Find society page photos from charity events.a candid shot where she's not quite ready for the camera. Her expression unguarded for just a moment.

It's her.

My Stella is Maya Rossi.

Daughter of my father's greatest enemy.

"Fuck."

.. The word comes out harsh in the quiet of my apartment.

No wonder she said it was impossible. No wonder she ran.

Our families have been at war for three generations. Business rivals turned bitter enemies. The kind of hatred that's become tradition, that's passed down like heirlooms.

If my father knew I'd spent the night with Antonio Rossi's daughter—if her father knew—

It would be mutually assured destruction.

I should let this go. Should be grateful I found out before things got more complicated. Should delete her photo and forget the way she felt in my arms.

Should.

All I can think about is the way she looked at me in that bar. The way she said she was tired of being careful. The way she came apart beneath me, crying my name like salvation.

She didn't know who I was. And I didn't know who she was.

We were just Ryan and Stella. Just two people who found something real in a world of performance.

That has to mean something.

My phone rings again. Marco.

"Did you find her

" it's complicated."

"How complicated?"

"Remember how Father wants me to destroy the Rossis?"

A pause.

"Oh fuck. She's a Rossi?"

"Antonio's daughter. Maya. She runs their media operations."

Marco whistles low. "That's... that's bad, cousin."

"I know."

"Are you going to tell Father?"

The question hangs in the air. Should I? It would be the smart play. Give Father ammunition, prove my loyalty, maybe even gain some leverage...t the thought of using last night against her makes me sick.

"No."

"Ryan"

"I'm not using her, Marco. I'm not turning what we had into a weapon."

"What you had was one night."

"It was more than that.At least it was for me."

"For her?"

"I don't know. Maybe. She ran, but... there was something. Something real."

"Real enough to risk everything for?"

I think about Stella's smile. Her laugh. The way she trusted me with her vulnerability.

"Maybe."

"You're insane."

"Probably."

"Father's going to kill you if he finds out."

"Only if he finds out." I make a decision, one that's probably going to destroy me. "I need your help."

"Always. What do you need?"

"Information. Everything you can find on Maya Rossi. Where she goes, what she does, how I can accidentally run into her without it looking intentional."

"You're going to pursue her. Even knowing who she is."

"I have to, Marco. I have to know if what I felt last night was real. If she felt it too."

"Then what? You two ride off into the sunset while our families destroy each other?"

"I don't know.Can't just forget her."

Marco sighs. "You're going to get your heart broken. Or worse."

"Worth it."

"You're insane,I'll get you what I need. Give me a day."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. This is going to end badly, cousin. I can feel it."

Maya Rossi is under my skin. I need to see her again, need to know if last night meant to her what it meant to me.

Even if it destroys us both.