Thus Spoke Zarathustra Kindle

“You don’t scare me, Llewellyn,” I lifted my chin as I spoke even though my pulse betrayed me. Cesare’s lips curved into a slow, wicked smirk as he stepped closer and spoke in a husky murmur. “That’s the problem, Rose… maybe you should be. Because I’m done pretending I don’t want you. I’ll have you—whether you let me or not.” My breath caught and anger and heat surged in my chest. “But you’ve always hated me.” His fingers brushed my jaw, tilting my face up to his. I felt my skin tingle and goosebumps rising. “Hate?” His gaze burned into mine. “Sweetheart, I’ve never hated you. I’ve only wanted you so much it felt like war.” ~~~~~~~~~ –Love was her rebellion. Betrayal became her awakening. Rosette Jenner has everything—wealth, beauty, and the Jenner name. But all she ever wanted was love untainted by power. When she trades her opulent life for a normal life with Blake, a charming man with big dreams, while also hiding her true identity, she believes she’s finally found it. Until everything shatters. Cast aside and robbed of everything she holds dear, Rosette dies broken. But fate isn’t done with her yet. Going back in time before her death, Rosette has one mission: take back everything they stole from her. And this time, as the heiress that she is. But as she walks the path of vengeance, an old nemesis returns—Cesare Llewellyn. Brilliant. Merciless. And the last man she ever wanted near her secrets. And this time, he's after her heart and she doesn't have a choice. He'll have it whether by force or not. Will she succumb after vowing not to love again?

Roseline's stomach turned and her fist clenched tightly around the handle of the big travel box beside her. She heard the clanging sound of the metallic head of Thompson's belt meeting the ground. Next, quite footsteps. Then, Thompson appeared in her view, like a ghost she didn't believe existed. He was completely bare, with his hairy chest rising and falling slowly, his cock shooting out in front like a gun ready to be fired, his balls bloated from desire, swinging from side to side as he walked closer to bed. Roseline's feet stuck to the ground and her eyes refused to blink as they looked on. "That's it, my boy. Hmm! I like what I see", the red hair gasped, rolling her eyes longingly at Thompson. As Thompson climbed unto the bed, his eyes totally locked in hers, she drew her breasts closer him, then, proceeded to rock the big pumpkins against the flushed skin of his face. "You like them?", she asked, moaning lightly. Thompson paused. Then, in a defiant move of uncontrollable desire, dug his chin into her breasts, burying his entire face in them. "Ouch", she gasped, then broke into a weak laugh, pushing his head more into her chest. "The damn bra", she spoke again, twisting uncomfortably as she threw her hands behind her to unhook the material. But Thompson caught her hands. Without words, his head still hidden in her cleavage, he slowly returned her hands to his head. Obliging to his silent command, she cackled loudly, pressing her chest even more into his face and then, with her tongue, glided across his neck and ears hungrily. Roseline froze. She wanted to scream but in that moment, she forgot how to.

Elena had once believed that silence could mean safety. That a gentle hand and a warm cup of tea placed quietly on her desk every morning could be a form of love. Lucien was never cruel—not in the obvious ways. He remembered how she liked her eggs, noticed when she swapped her perfume, and sent flowers on days he knew she wouldn’t expect them. He raised her like one would raise a pet—softly, without question. And Elena, foolish in the way only the very lonely can be, mistook his quiet affection for devotion. She told herself he was reserved. Mysterious. That love didn’t always wear its heart on its sleeve. But when the old flame returned—the one who spoke his language without needing to try—Elena saw it. The difference. He looked at her like a man who had found his lost religion. And Elena? She had simply been convenient. No tears, no scene. Just papers on the breakfast table, beside the eggs he cooked perfectly. She didn’t accuse or beg. She only asked for freedom. He didn’t sign. He chuckled. A soft, dismissive sound. “A cat raised indoors doesn’t know how to survive on the street, Elena. You’ll come back." But she didn’t. She disappeared, like smoke—except she didn’t vanish, not really. She lived. She wore colour again. Laughed at bad jokes. Let strange men hand her coffee and ask for her number. Lucien? He watched. He watched her become someone without him. And it drove him mad. The night he cornered her outside the gallery, rain in his hair and desperation in his eyes, he looked like a man undone. "Elena," he breathed, "please. Look at me. Just once." She did. Calm as ever, and her love already gone.