Ruthless Desires (18+)

Aria’s POV

The city glitters beneath my penthouse windows, but it’s the kind of glitter that feels cold, sharp—like broken glass pretending to be diamonds. I swirl the last of my wine and catch my reflection in the black pane. Thirty-eight. Widow. CEO of Moretti Interiors. A woman who has everything except the one thing she actually wants.

“Don’t give me that look,” Elena says, kicking off her Louboutins and collapsing on my velvet sofa. She’s effortless glamour, all legs and sharp wit. My best friend and my worst influence. “You’re lonely, Aria. Admit it. If you don’t start living again, I swear I’ll sign you up myself.”

“I’m not lonely,” I lie, taking a sip. My voice is too flat, even for me. “I’m selective.”

From the armchair, Sophia—my younger sister, always smug—snorts. “Selective? Please. You’ve turned down every man who so much as smiled at you. What was wrong with that banker last month?”

“He wanted me to invest in his hedge fund before dessert arrived,” I snap.

Sophia grins. “And the surgeon? Gorgeous, wealthy, with a yacht?”

“He called it ‘The Pussy Magnet.’”

Sophia bursts out laughing. “Honestly, I’d have overlooked the name. Have you seen those abs?”

Their laughter bounces around my perfect penthouse, and I hate how hollow it feels inside me. They don’t get it. None of them do. It’s been nine years since Luca died, and every man since either wanted my money, my company, or the novelty of fucking a wealthy widow. No one wanted me.

I glance at the bottle on the table. Luca used to pour for me. Now I pour for myself.

Elena leans forward, snatching my phone. “Fine. If you won’t put yourself out there, I will. One app. One week. You need to laugh again, darling.”

“Elena—”

“No excuses.” She waves my phone like a weapon. “This is happening.”

“I am not swiping through a parade of men in cheap suits and bathroom selfies.”

Sophia smirks. “Give it a week. She’ll be swiping in bed with a vibrator in one hand and her phone in the other.”

“Jesus, Sophia!” Heat creeps up my neck.

“What? Tell me I’m wrong.”

I lunge for my phone, but Elena dances back and slaps it into my hand. The screen glows with a newly downloaded dating app. “One week. If you hate it, delete it.”

I sigh, staring at rows of faces: a man holding a fish, another holding a baby that probably isn’t his, a CEO type smirking from behind a Ferrari. Swipe left, left, left.

It feels pointless.

Later That Night

By midnight, the penthouse is quiet again. Elena’s perfume lingers in the air, Sophia’s laughter still echoes faintly in my head, but the apartment feels cavernous without them.

I curl into the corner of my sofa, glass empty, city lights flickering across my bare legs. I should be in bed. Instead, I’m staring at the glowing screen Elena shoved into my life.

The app waits for me, pulsing like a dare.

I tell myself I’ll delete it in the morning. Tonight, though… I open it.

Rows of faces slide past my thumb. Smug smiles. Bad angles. One man crouching with a fish, another cradling a baby that clearly isn’t his. Jesus. Swipe left. Swipe left. Swipe left.

The ridiculousness makes me laugh, but underneath the laughter is a restless thrum in my blood. A hunger I haven’t admitted out loud.

And then I pause. The app asks for a profile photo.

I scroll through my camera roll. Work functions, charity galas, tight smiles that don’t quite reach my eyes. Too polished. Too practiced. And then—

I find her. Me, at twenty-five. Black dress, hair long and dark, eyes lit with something wild. That version of me hadn’t yet buried a husband, hadn’t yet learned how silence could weigh more than stone. She laughed too easily, flirted too recklessly.

I shouldn’t use it. God, it’s a lie.

But the longer I look, the more I ache.

My thumb hovers. Then I crop the photo, smooth the light, press upload.

The rush hits instantly, like stepping onto a high ledge. Shame and thrill colliding in my stomach.

“What are you doing, Aria?” I whisper to the empty room. “Lying.”

But for the first time in years, I don’t feel dead. I feel… dangerous.

The screen refreshes. More men appear. Swipe left. Left. Another left.

And then—him.

Logan, 29. Ex-military. Six-foot-two.

I make bad decisions but great pancakes. Swipe right if you can handle sarcasm, tequila, and trouble.

His grin is cocky, the kind that says he knows exactly how reckless women ruin themselves for men like him. His chest is bare, dog tags glinting against muscle carved from grit, not gym mirrors. His eyes are sharp, mischievous, alive.

He’s every mistake I’ve sworn off.

And I laugh. A real laugh. The kind that shakes loose something in my chest.

I should swipe left. I swipe right.

Instant match.

My heart stutters. Shit.

A second later, the first message pings.

Logan: Well, well. Guess the universe finally threw me a bone.

Me: Bold start. Do you use that line on everyone?

Logan: Only the ones too beautiful to ignore.

Me: Smooth. You practice that in the mirror, soldier boy?

Logan: No mirror required. You’ve got that face that makes men stupid. Bet you already know it, though.

I bite my lip, warmth spreading through me.

Me: What if I like making men stupid?

Logan: Then I’m already fucked, because I can’t stop staring at your mouth.

Heat crawls down my neck.

Me: You realize we’ve exchanged three messages and you’re already undressing me with your eyes?

Logan: Correction: I started undressing you the second you swiped right.

A laugh slips out of me, sharp and real.

Me: Cocky, aren’t you?

Logan: Confident. Big difference. Besides, something tells me you like cocky.

Me: And what makes you think that?

Logan: Because you didn’t block me when I said “your mouth.” Most women would have by now.

Me: Maybe I’m just curious how much filthier you’ll get.

His reply is instant.

Logan: Careful, sweetheart. I don’t bluff. You want filthy, I’ll have you blushing so hard you’ll need to open a window.

My thighs clench. God help me.

Me: Prove it.

Logan: Right now?

Me: Yes.

There’s a pause, then:

Logan: What are you wearing, sweetheart? Don’t lie.

Me: Why would I lie?

Logan: Because if you say sweatpants, I’ll still picture you in lace with your thighs spread, waiting for me to make a mess of you.

My breath stutters.

Me: You’re very sure of yourself for a man who doesn’t even know me.

Logan: Oh, I know enough. Women like you are rare. Elegant. Dangerous. And underneath all that control, you’re aching for someone to ruin you a little.

My pulse hammers.

Me: You shouldn’t say things like that.

Logan: Why not? Because you’re wet now?

I slam the phone face-down, heart racing. Then pick it back up, fingers trembling.

Me: You’re insane.

Logan: Insane about you, maybe.

Somewhere between his filth and my laughter, an hour disappears. My wineglass is empty, my legs tucked under me, but my pulse is alive in a way it hasn’t been in years.

His reply comes instantly.

Logan: God, I hope you do. Haven’t met a woman worth losing sleep over in a long time.

The words hit differently. Not just a line. Something darker under the surface.

Another ping.

Logan: So tell me, Aria—are you always this intoxicating, or am I just lucky tonight?

The laugh that bursts out of me is unpolished, too loud for the silence of the room. It feels… good.

For the first time in nine years, I don’t close the app.

I let him in.

To Be Continued…