The sky over Rome bled red as dusk turned to night.
Ana stood on the edge of a bridge overlooking the Tiber River, her reflection broken and shifting in the rippling water. Her phone buzzed again in her hand, but she didn't look at it.
She didn't have to.
It was him.
Hayden.
She could feel him like gravity—pulling at her from across the city. Every breath she took felt tethered to his name, his voice, his hands. Her skin still ached from his touch, and it made her furious.
How could someone so cruel make her feel so alive?
How could someone who had chained her to a life she didn't choose make her crave the heat of his body like oxygen?
She wasn't supposed to want him.
She was supposed to *hate* him.
---
Hayden paced the length of his bedroom like a caged animal. The lights of Rome glittered outside, but his world was dark, silent, and missing the only thing that mattered.
Ana.
She had disappeared into the city hours ago. His men hadn't found her. And that fact alone ignited something raw in his chest.
Fear.
He didn't like how it felt. It was unfamiliar. Ugly.
Hayden had built empires on control. Discipline. Ice-cold calculation.
But Ana Vega—Ana *Nicholas*—was the one variable he couldn't master.
And it was driving him insane.
He picked up his phone again.
She still hadn't read his last three texts.
He sent another.
> **Hayden:** Come home, Ana. I'll burn this city to the ground if I have to.
He stared at the screen, at his own words.
Then, a new message appeared.
> **Ana:** I'm not a possession, Hayden. You don't get to command me.
His lips curled.
*Oh, baby.* But I do.
---
Ana returned to the penthouse after midnight.
Not because she was scared.
Not because he ordered her.
But because some part of her *wanted* to see him.
She stepped into the grand, silent space and found him in the shadows, leaning against the wall like a sculpture carved from fury and need.
"You left," he said. His voice was low. Tense. "Without a word."
"I needed air," she replied, lifting her chin. "And space."
He pushed off the wall, walking slowly toward her. "Space? You walked out on your husband."
She narrowed her eyes. "You think this marriage means anything?"
His hand moved fast—faster than she could react—fisting into her hair, pulling her head back just enough to make her breath catch.
"I think," he said against her mouth, "you've forgotten who you belong to."
Her heart thundered. Not in fear. In something else. Something hotter. More dangerous.
"I don't belong to anyone," she whispered.
His lips ghosted over hers. "That's what you keep telling yourself."
She didn't push him away.
Didn't stop him when his hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him.
"I hate you," she breathed.
"Liar."
His mouth crashed down on hers—bruising, claiming. She moaned into him, fists curling in his shirt, nails biting his chest.
And just like that, the dam broke.
Clothes hit the floor like thunder. His shirt. Her blouse. The lace of her bra. The silk of his tie. His hands roamed her body like he owned every inch—and maybe he did, because she let him.
God, she *let him*.
Her back hit the wall. His mouth traveled down her neck, her collarbone, lower still—leaving trails of fire that made her head fall back with a gasp.
"Say it," he growled against her skin. "Say you're mine."
She didn't.
Not yet.
But her body did.
Every moan, every shiver, every breathless plea was a surrender she couldn't hide.
And when he finally took her—hard, relentless, claiming—there was no room left for hate.
Only fire.
Only him.
Only *this*.
---
Later, in the silence of tangled sheets and sweat-slick skin, Ana lay with her head on his chest, listening to the violent rhythm of his heartbeat.
She didn't speak.
Neither did he.
But in the quiet, they both knew something had shifted.
This wasn't revenge anymore.
This was war.
Between desire and destruction.
Between pain and the twisted thing growing in the ashes of their past.