Chapter Three: Between Desire and Betrayal

I woke up before the sun fully broke through the curtains. My eyes burned, not from lack of sleep, but from the restless storm in my chest. I had been lying there for hours, staring at the ceiling, his arm draped possessively across my waist as if I were something he owned.

I shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, and reached for my phone on the nightstand. My chest tightened when my gaze fell on his instead. The screen was still lit from a message that must have come in while he was sleeping. I had read it hours ago and it refused to leave my head.

“Hey love, why are you ignoring my call?”

Vicky.

The words replayed in my mind over and over again like a curse. Who was she? Why did she call him love? And why did his phone buzz with her name while he was lying here in my bed, in my life, promising me the world?

I turned away and buried my face in the pillow, willing myself not to cry.

Minutes later, I felt him stir behind me. His arm tightened, pulling me closer. “You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

“Yes,” I whispered, forcing my voice to be steady.

He turned me around gently so I faced him, his brows furrowing. “You don’t look right. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

He didn’t buy it. His gaze sharpened, and he cupped my chin, tilting my face up. “Don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when something’s wrong with my woman? If you don’t tell me your problem, how do you expect me to fix it?”

The weight of his stare was too much. My lips trembled. “It’s just… yesterday.”

“What about yesterday?”

I swallowed hard. “The concert. You left me alone. You didn’t even introduce me as your girlfriend—you called me your assistant. And then you distanced yourself, like you were ashamed of me.”

For a second, I thought he’d soften. That he’d apologize, pull me into his arms and tell me I was wrong. Instead, his expression changed—his jaw tightened, his eyes darkened, and he let out a dry laugh.

“Oh, really? That’s what’s bothering you?” His tone was cold, sharp enough to cut. “Isabella, I’m a successful businessman. I don’t mix my personal relationships with clients or business partners. You expect me to parade you around like some prize? Grow up.”

The words stung. Like a slap. I sat there in silence, trying to gather myself, but my chest felt hollow.

He pushed off the bed, running a hand through his hair, frustrated. Then, as quickly as the storm came, it passed. He turned back, his tone shifting, softer now, like honey covering poison.

“Get dressed,” he said.

“What?” I asked, my voice small.

“Get dressed,” he repeated, walking to the wardrobe. “We’re going out. I don’t like the way you looked last night. You deserve better. I’m taking you shopping. Designer bags, dresses, shoes… whatever you want. I’ll get you the best.”

My heart was torn between anger and relief. Relief that he was being sweet again, anger that he thought material things could erase how he treated me.

But like a fool, I nodded. I told myself this was love. Maybe this was what it meant to love a man like him.

As I slipped out of bed, I caught sight of his phone again on the nightstand. The screen was black now, but in my head, the message glowed like fire.

Hey love, why are you ignoring my call?

I looked at him from the corner of my eye. He was buttoning up his shirt, humming softly as if nothing was wrong. As if there wasn’t another woman out there calling him love.

And in that moment, I realized something.

I wasn’t just falling for him. I was falling into something dangerous.

He drove us to the most exclusive shopping district in the city, the kind of place I’d only ever seen in magazines. The streets shimmered with glass storefronts, designer logos glowing like jewels under the morning sun. My heart raced as we stepped out of the car, his hand firm on the small of my back.

Inside, everything felt unreal—the polished marble floors, the smell of leather and new fabric, the way sales attendants seemed to recognize him instantly. “Mr. Dickens, welcome back,” one of them said with a bow. Back? The word struck me, but I swallowed it down.

He picked out dresses for me like he was picking out wine—confident, precise, not asking my opinion, just deciding. “Try this one,” he said, thrusting a silk gown into my arms. “And this. And this.”

I twirled in front of the mirror, half-dizzy from the glittering lights and the weight of the price tags. He leaned back in the chair, watching me with dark, hungry eyes. “Perfect,” he murmured. “No man will be able to take his eyes off you.”

Then his expression hardened. “Which is why you won’t wear that neckline again.” He snapped his fingers, and the attendant rushed to take the dress away.

I laughed nervously. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s my woman,” he corrected, his voice low but sharp.

The words sank into my chest like ice.

But before I could react, he was smiling again, slipping a diamond-studded watch onto my wrist. “Now, you’ll always carry me with you. And I’ll always know the time you belong to me.”

I smiled, weakly. I wanted to believe it was romantic, but it sounded like a chain disguised as jewelry.

By the time we walked out, my arms were heavy with bags—Gucci, Prada, Dior, names I had only whispered in daydreams. Everyone stared. I should have felt like a queen, but instead, I felt like a doll being dressed and displayed.

As we stepped back into the car, his phone buzzed on the dashboard. My heart froze when I saw the name again.

Vicky.

This time, the message wasn’t sweet.

“Why are you doing this to me? Call me back, or I’ll come to the hotel myself.”

The air in my lungs turned to stone.

The waiter had just poured wine into my glass when I felt the pressure in my chest tighten. The diamonds on my wrist suddenly felt too heavy, the room too bright, and my throat too dry. I needed a moment.

“Excuse me,” I said softly, leaning toward Dickens. “I’ll be right back. I need the ladies’ room.”

He arched a brow, as if even asking for permission was a crime, but after a beat, he nodded. “Don’t take long.”

I slid from my chair and hurried down the gold-trimmed hallway, the click of my heels sharp against the marble floor. I turned a corner too quickly and collided with someone—hard. My balance tilted, and I nearly hit the ground, but a strong hand shot out and grabbed my arm.

“Whoa, careful.”

I looked up.

And for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

He was tall—easily over six feet—with dark hair that curled slightly at the ends, and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. They weren’t just blue; they were piercing, like they could cut through every layer of me. His grip was firm but gentle, steadying me until my feet found the ground again.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice low and warm. “I wasn’t looking.”

“It’s… it’s okay,” I whispered, unable to look away.

We stood there for a heartbeat too long, the noise of the restaurant fading into a distant hum. Something passed between us—something unspoken, dangerous, magnetic.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek business card, and pressed it into my hand. His fingers brushed mine, and a strange shiver ran up my arm.

“Call me when you can,” he said simply.

I blinked at the card, then at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. Before I could say anything, footsteps echoed behind me, and I snapped back to reality.

“I—I have to go,” I stammered, clutching the card like it was burning through my palm.

He gave me a small, knowing smile. “I’ll be waiting.”

I hurried back to the table, tucking the card deep into my purse before Dickens could notice. He glanced at me when I sat down, his eyes sharp.

“Took you long enough.”

“Sorry. There was a line.”

He studied me for a moment, then returned to his wine, satisfied with my answer. But my mind was far away.

All through brunch—while Dickens spoke about contracts, power, and money I didn’t understand—I kept thinking about those blue eyes. About the way he steadied me. About the card that now rested in the darkness of my purse, like a secret flame waiting to ignite.

When Dickens finally dropped me off at home, I carried my shopping bags upstairs, my heart still caught in the memory of that brief, electric moment. Clara squealed the moment I entered, running her fingers over the silk dress I wore and the glittering bracelet on my wrist.

“Bella, this is beautiful! You’re living the dream,” she said, twirling around me.

I smiled faintly, but my thoughts weren’t with her. They were with him.

The stranger.

The card.

And the dangerous feeling that, somehow, my life had just shifted in a way I couldn’t yet explain.