All Chapters of His Games, Her Rules: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

I hate flying. Always have and always will. I stare out the jet window, watching clouds drift by like lazy ghosts, all to avoid the burning weight of Dominique’s gaze. He hasn’t stopped looking at me since we took off. It’s been ten minutes, but it feels like ten hours in the air. We’re in his private jet—The Voss Bird. Why it’s called that, I don’t know, but it sounds exactly like something Dominique would name. The jet is pure class, nude interior against cream leather seats, sleek finishes, and soft lighting that makes everything feel too intimate. I’ll admit, I was impressed when I stepped inside. But the moment I sat down, reality crashed back in—I’m really on a private jet with Dominique Voss, headed to Santa Monica to play the role of his pretend girlfriend. Fuck my life. “Are you gonna be done any minute now?” I snap, turning from the window to glare at him. He’s reclining casually in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, his jaw sharp and relaxed like he owns

There’s a lounge tucked into the far end of the jet—sleek, quiet, and hidden like a well-kept secret. I must’ve walked past it three times without noticing, but now that I’m here, I take a second to absorb it. Everything inside looks effortlessly luxurious. Dark wood paneling, plush seating, gold accents. Subtle, but expensive. A man sits on one of the barstools, sipping a drink with a casual confidence that says he belongs everywhere and nowhere at once. The bartender behind the counter, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black vest, is wiping a glass like we’re in some upscale Manhattan bar, not thirty thousand feet in the air. I recognize the man before he even turns—Dominique’s closest friend—and apparently, his only real one. Oliver. I approach the bar and set down my empty glass. He glances at me just as I glance at him. It’s the first time I’ve gotten a proper look at him up close. He’s handsome in that classic, effortless way. Tousled dark hair and sharp features that

I’ve always been an early bird. Working in a hospital does that to you. Early check-ins, early shifts, early everything. Waking up before the sun is just part of who I am now. I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I rinse off my toothbrush and set it back in its holder. Dominique wasn’t in bed when I woke up—actually, scratch that—he wasn’t anywhere in the bedroom. So naturally, I assume he’s still asleep somewhere else in this massive suite. I rake my fingers through my hair and pad barefoot across the room, heading for the kitchen in search of coffee. But when I reach the living room, I pause mid-step. Dominique is passed out on the couch. His hair is a tousled mess of brown strands, sticking out in different directions like he fought a war in his sleep. One long leg dangles over the edge of the couch, the other bent slightly. His right arm is thrown over his forehead, covering his eyes, while his left hand is shoved inside the waistband of his gray sweatpant

My mission during this breakfast meeting with his family is simple: revenge. Dominique left me sexually frustrated, and now it’s his turn to suffer. Earlier, while I was in the bath, I touched myself just to take the edge off—shamelessly imagining Dominique’s hands where I craved them most. Now, standing in front of the full-length mirror beside the wardrobe, I add the final stroke of lipstick and give my reflection one last look. Mission accomplished. The spaghetti-strap burgundy jumpsuit hugs every inch of my body like it was stitched onto my skin. The draped neckline dips just enough to tease, and the lace-up backless design leaves little to the imagination. My curves are doing exactly what I need them to do: cause chaos. Paired with clear 4-inch stilettos and a spritz of Tom Ford’s unisex scent, I’m weaponized. Polished. Powerful. Clutching my white purse, I leave the bedroom and step into the living room. Dominique is on the balcony. His back is to me, arms resting aga

Something is happening to me. Something strange—and I don’t like it. Jealousy. I’ve never been the jealous type. I don’t chase. I don’t pine. And I definitely don’t sulk over men. But here I am, lying on a private beach in a white one-piece that hugs my curves like a second skin… and I can’t stop glaring at the woman hanging all over Dominique. Aimee’s laugh—a high-pitched, smug giggle—cuts through the breeze like nails on a chalkboard. She’s leaning into Dominique, brushing her fingers down his arm like she owns the rights to his body. And the worst part? He’s letting her. My chest tightens. I swallow hard. God, I hate her. “You know you’re torturing yourself, right?” a low, amused voice says beside me. I whip my head to the side. Lorenzo. He’s lounging on the sunbed next to mine, sunglasses pushed into his dark hair, brown eyes lazily trailing over me. He’s shirtless, all tattoos and muscle and bad-boy ease. Objectively speaking, he’s hot—devastatingly so. But unfor