Chapter 5

The Girl Who Played With Fire 

The days that followed were a masterclass in deception. By day, Anna was the model daughter, helpful and cheerful. She went tubing with her father, she read books on the deck, she even helped the housekeeper make dinner. 

And Desmond the devil, played his part perfectly. He was charming and attentive to Richard and coolly polite to her. 

There were no more stolen glances, no accidental brushes of the hand. The wall he had tried to build that morning was back in place, taller and stronger than before.

But the nights were different.

The house would fall silent. Her father would be asleep, lost in mundane dreams of stock options and golf. 

And then, it would start. A text, a single, burning word: Boathouse. Or sometimes: The dock after midnight.

She would go, every single time. Her body would move of its own accord, a moth drawn to a beautiful and deadly flame.

These encounters weren't about tenderness or confessions. But they were about raw and a desperate need. 

They were about greed, and they were about taking and taking until there was nothing left to take.

He would be waiting for her in the darkness, a silhouette against the moonlit water. He wouldn't speak, and he would just grab her. His hands were rough and possessive, and kissed her like he was trying to consume her soul. 

They would fuck against the rough wood of the boathouse, on the cool planks of the dock, once even in the shallow and chilly water at the edge of the lake.

 Their clothes abandoned on the shore. It was frantic, wordless, and utterly addicting. He was a drug, and she was a willing, eager addict.

Afterward, he would hold her for a few precious minutes, their bodies tangled together, the only sounds their slowing breaths and the lapping of the water.

In those moments, she could almost pretend it was real. But then, he would pull away, the spell broken.

"You need to go," he would say, the same four words every time. A cold and hard dismissal.

She would walk back to the house, her body humming, her heart aching, and the evidence of their sin cooling on her skin. She would lie in her bed, the scent of him clinging to her, and plot her next move.

She had to escalate, because she was tired of being a secret. She was tired of the darkness and she wanted to see the light on his face when he looked at her, not the moon. 

She wanted to be more than a mistake he made in the dark.

The opportunity presented itself at a weekend barbecue. Richard had invited a few other families from the city, turning the lake house into a bustling party. 

There were people everywhere, noise and laughter and the smell of grilled steak filling the air. It was the perfect cover.

Anna wore a white bikini, a deliberate choice. It was simple, elegant, but it left very little to the imagination. She spent the afternoon by the pool, laughing with the other teenagers, but she was acutely aware of Desmond's every move. 

He was holding court on the patio, a beer in his hand, the picture of relaxed wealth and power. He was avoiding her, pointedly so. He hadn't looked at her once all day.

Fine. Two could play in that game.

She waited until he was deep in conversation with her father and another business associate. She slipped into the house and up to the master bathroom. 

She knew her mother kept a bottle of expensive, spicy perfume on the counter, the kind her father bought her for anniversaries. Her father's favorite.

She dabbed a single drop on each wrist, behind her ears and then, with a wicked smile, on the hollow of her throat. She walked back outside, not to the pool but directly to the patio where the men were talking. She stopped right beside Desmond's chair.

"Uncle Des," she said, her voice bright and innocent. "Could you help me with the umbrella? It's stuck."

He stiffened. The title "Uncle Des" was a shot across the bow, a deliberate reminder of their forbidden dynamic. He didn't look at her. "I'm busy, Anna. Ask your father."

"Dad's busy," she said, her smile unwavering. She leaned down, bringing her wrist close to his face as she gestured to the umbrella. 

"It will only take a second."

It was a calculated risk. As she moved, the spicy scent of her mother's perfume wafted towards him. It was a signal, a message only he would understand. 

This is my mother's world, this is my father's world. And I am bringing our poison right into the middle of it.

He finally turned his head. His eyes met hers, and for a split second she saw it. The flash of fury, of lust, of complete and utter panic. He saw the perfume, and he understood the game she was playing.

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone patio. "Fine," he clipped out. "Let's get this umbrella."

He walked towards the pool, and she followed, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She had forced him out of his fortress. And she had made him look at her in the light of day, in front of everyone.

He grabbed the umbrella pole and yanked it, hard. It came loose with a groan.

"There," he said, turning on her, his voice was a dangerous whisper meant only for her. 

"Anything else?"

"Yes, actually, I'm cold."

She looked pointedly at her towel, lying on a lounge chair a few feet away. It was a blatant, provocative request, he knew it, and she knew it too. 

Anyone watching would see nothing more than a girl asking her father's best friend to pass her a towel.

He stared at her, his jaw tight. She saw the war waging in his eyes. The desire to strangle her versus the desire to do something far worse. 

With a defeated sigh, he grabbed the towel and held it out to her.

She took a step forward, into the space between them, and as she wrapped her fingers around the towel, she let her own brush against his. 

It was an insignificant touch, but it was electric. She held his gaze, her own filled with a defiant and a fiery challenge.

She was playing with fire, and she wanted him to get burned with her.