Chapter 3

The Girl Who Kissed a Devil 

"You don't have a choice," he said, his voice hardening. He was fully dressed now, the powerful CEO back in place.

The man who had been inside her, who had claimed every inch of her, was gone. And in his place was a stranger. A devil in a tailored shirt. 

"Go to your room, Anna, we will pretend this never happened. In the morning, we will be Desmond and Anna, your father's best friend and his daughter. That's the only way."

He moved to the door, his hand on the knob, pausing with his back to her. The set of his shoulders was final, a wall she could not breach.

"Get dressed," he said without turning around. "And don't make a sound."

He opened the door and slipped out into the dark hallway, closing it softly behind him and leaving her alone in the wreckage of her father's bed. 

The room felt cold, and empty. The scent of him was already fading, replaced by the sterile smell of her father's cologne on the pillows.

She sat there for a long time, the sheet clutched to her naked chest, her body trembling with a mixture of cold, shock, and a burgeoning, white-hot rage. 

He had called her a sweet girl, then a mistake. He had tasted the stars with her and then told her the sky was empty.

She slid off the bed, her legs were unsteady. She could feel the sticky evidence of their lovemaking between her thighs, a visceral reminder of his betrayal.

She found her discarded dress, a simple cotton sundress, and pulled it on over her head. Her panties were gone, probably kicked under the bed, a tiny and forgotten casualty of war. She left them.

She caught her reflection in the dark window. Her hair was a mess, her lips were swollen, her eyes were wide and shadowed. 

She looked ravaged, she looked like a woman who had just been thoroughly fucked and then discarded.

The Girl Who Tasted Stars. The title was a mockery now. She hadn't tasted stars, but she had tasted poison. And she was beginning to crave it.

Morning came with the harsh, unforgiving light of a thousand spotlights. Every creak of the old lake house sounded like an accusation. 

Anna moved through her morning routine like a ghost, her body aching, her mind a battlefield of memories and rage. She had barely slept, replaying every word, every touch, every cruel, final look on Desmond's face.

He was right about one thing, she had to pretend.

When she entered the kitchen, he was already there, sitting at the table with her father. He was dressed in a crisp polo and linen shorts, a picture of casual, masculine perfection. The devil in paradise. 

He had a newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He didn't look up.

"Morning, sleepyhead!" her father, Richard, said with a cheerful grin. "Big day on the lake today. Des and I are taking the new yacht out."

Anna's stomach clenched. "That's nice, Dad."

She moved to the coffeepot, her back to them, acutely aware of Desmond's presence behind her. She could feel him like a storm gathering on the horizon. 

She poured her coffee, her hands surprisingly steady. The act of pretending, of burying the real Anna deep inside, gave her a strange, cold strength.

She turned and sat down at the table, as far from him as she could get. She risked a glance at him. Yet, he was still pretending to read the paper. 

But she could see the tension in the line of his jaw, he was a good actor, but she knew him now. She knew the tells.

"So, Anna," Richard said, oblivious to the icy silence radiating from the other half of the table. 

"Des was just telling me he might have an internship opportunity for you at his company this fall. In the marketing department."

The fork in Anna's hand froze halfway to her mouth. An internship! He was trying to manage her, to put her in a neat little box where he could control and observe her.

 He was trying to turn their explosive, cataclysmic night into a career opportunity.

She lowered the fork, and looked at her father, a wide, bright smile on her face that didn't reach her eyes. 

"That's so thoughtful of you, Mr. Desmond, but I don't think that would be appropriate."

Her father frowned. "Why not? It's a great opportunity."

"Oh, I'm sure it is," Anna said, her voice dripping with a sweet venom that only Desmond would understand. She finally turned her eyes to him, locking her eyes with his. 

She saw the flicker of panic. "I just think after last night… it would be a little awkward."

The air in the room turned to glass. Richard looked between them, confused. "After last night? What happened last night? You went to bed early."

"I know I did," Anna said, taking a slow sip of her coffee. Her eyes never left Desmond's. 

"But I had a very vivid dream. I was a different person in it, someone much more… daring. 

In the dream, I learned that opportunities aren't always what they seem. Sometimes they're just gilded cages."

Desmond's face was a mask of stone, but she could see it in his eyes. He understood. She wasn't going to play his game. 

And she wasn't going to be the sweet girl, the mistake, the intern.

Richard laughed, shaking his head. "You and your dramatic dreams. Must be all those fantasy novels you read. Des, ignore her. She's a teenager."

Anna's smile widened. "Am I, Daddy? Or am I just a girl who knows what she wants?"

It was a direct challenge, and a declaration of war. She was pushing, testing the boundaries and seeing how far she could go before he broke.

Desmond finally lowered his paper, folded it with deliberate movements, the rustle of the pages loud in the suffocating silence. He looked at Richard, a perfectly constructed smile on his face. 

"She's got a point, Rich. Maybe I was being too presumptuous. Anna's a grown woman, she should decide her own future."

The words were a surrender, but Anna knew it was a tactical retreat. He was giving her this small victory to placate her and to get her to back down.

"I agree," she said, her voice light. "I should decide my own future. And I have." She pushed her chair back and stood up.

"I'm going for a swim."

She walked out of the room without a backward glance, leaving the two men in her wake. She could feel Desmond's eyes on her back, a physical weight. 

Let him look, and let him worry.

She didn't actually go for a swim, but she went to the boathouse. It was a dusty, forgotten place, filled with the ghosts of summer's past. 

The air smelled of gasoline and old rope. It was the perfect place to hide, and a perfect place to plan.

She was standing there, staring out at the glittering water, when she heard footsteps on the wooden dock. Heavy and purposeful footsteps. She didn't have to turn around.

"What the hell was that in there?" His voice was a furious whisper.

Anna turned around, crossing her arms over her chest. "What are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," he said, advancing on her. He was so close she could feel the heat coming off his body, a dangerous and familiar warmth. 

"The dream? The gilded cages? Are you trying to ruin everything?"

"Ruin what?" She shot back, her anger rising to meet his. "Your perfect friendship? Your convenient lie? 

You're the one who called it a mistake Desmond. You're the one who told me to forget it, I'm just taking your advice."

"Don't play games with me, Anna," he warned, his blue eyes dark with anger. 

"This isn't a game. Your father…"

"My father is the only reason you're standing here lecturing me," she interrupted, stepping closer, closing the distance between them until they were almost touching. 

"If it weren't for him, you would have woken up in my bed this morning. Not his."

The words hung in the air between them, raw and provocative. He flinched as if she'd struck him.

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" she let out a bitter laugh. "You want to talk to me about fair? You spent years looking at me like I was something you wanted to devour, and last night, you finally did. 

You took me in my father's bed, and this morning, you called me a mistake. Where is the fairness in that?"

She was crying now, hot angry tears she couldn't stop. She hated herself for it and for showing him this weakness.

He reached out, his thumb brushing a tear from her cheek. His touch was a brand, a spark that reignited the fire she was trying so hard to extinguish. 

"I didn't mean it like that," he said, his voice rough with an emotion she couldn't name. "It wasn't a mistake because of you.

But it was a mistake because of me. Because of what I am, and what I'm capable of."

"And what are you capable of?" She challenged, her voice barely a whisper.

But instead of answering, he kissed her.