****Sarah's POV****
It was barely 7 a.m. when I heard a soft, calculated knock on my door.
Still drowsy, I shuffled over, unlocked the handle, and cracked the door open. A maid stood there, her eyes lowered respectfully.
"Sir Sam asked me to give you this," she said, handing over a sleek, navy-blue box and a fresh bunch of roses—rich red, with dew still kissing their petals. Behind her, another maid stepped forward with a tray of breakfast—golden croissants, fruit slices, and warm, fragrant tea.
They left without another word.
"Wow…" I whispered, breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.
Cradling the flowers and box in my arms, I shut the door softly with the back of my foot and walked toward my reading table. I needed a jar—no, something elegant—for the flowers. For now, I laid them down gently beside the box.
It was sealed tight. I took a pen from my journal and slid it beneath the edge, working my way through until the box cracked open.
There it was.
A dress. A stunning, silk-blue dress that seemed to shimmer beneath the morning light. The tag read Lauret. My lips parted in awe. My fingers brushed the fabric delicately.
"He got me a dress?" I said aloud, stunned. Who even does that?
Beneath the folded satin lay a small note—clean paper, masculine handwriting.
"Good morning, sunshine.
How was your night?
I hope it was great.
Eat, and then dress up.
We're going out.
– S."
My stomach fluttered violently.
Sunshine? Did he just call me that?
A huge smile betrayed me—I couldn't fight it. I hugged the note to my chest, spun in slow circles like a girl dancing with a dream. Yesterday's walk, the warmth of his hand in mine, the sound of his laughter, the ghost of his lips near mine… it all came crashing back.
"Am I… in love with him?" I asked myself, half-laughing as I fell backward onto the bed.
Heat crept up my skin. I rolled over, buried my face into my pillow, then sat back up.
"Get a hold of yourself," I scolded, slapping my cheeks softly. But even that couldn't erase the smile still sitting stubbornly on my lips.
****Sam's POV****
"She's received it, sir," the maid reported.
I didn't look at her. Just gave a slight nod and waved her off.
Alone again, I slid my hands into my pants pockets and paced the length of the room. Back and forth. Back and forth. The rhythm helped, but not enough to quiet what I was feeling.
This isn't love.
I shut my eyes.
It can't be love.
She's just a girl.
An inconvenient one at that.
The daughter of a dead man I once considered my father's enemy.
From a family I should despise.
This is strategy. This is control.
I ran a hand over my face and let out a low breath.
"She's just like the others," I muttered. "There's nothing special about her. She's pretty, sure—but that's all."
Yet… no one else's smile has stuck in my mind this long.
No one else's voice has played on a loop in the back of my head all night.
I gritted my teeth and laughed bitterly. This is ridiculous.
I just need to get her in my bed—that's all. That'll fix it. That'll break the obsession.
It always does.
Right?
She's soft. Too soft. A girl like her shouldn't be in a world like mine. But I'll make her mine just long enough to get it out of my system. Then she can leave, and I'll go back to normal. Cold. Unattached. Free.
I stopped pacing, looked toward the window.
But why the hell do I keep looking for her face when she's not around?
I clenched my jaw and shook my head violently, like I could chase the thoughts away.
She's nothing. Just a distraction.
I don't feel anything. I can't.
I won't.
************
***Sarah's POV***
"You need a vase?" the head maid asked gently, her voice warm and measured.
"Yes," I replied, flashing a quick, grateful smile.
She turned her gaze toward the maid quarters, then shouted something in French—sharp, clear, and commanding. Though I didn't understand the words, I could tell she was ordering someone to fetch one for me.
Then she turned back to me, her eyes scanning from head to toe.
"You are a very beautiful young lady, Mamacita," she said with a knowing grin.
I blushed.
"Thank you," I murmured, suddenly shy.
I'd only thrown on my nightie after a bath—figured I'd grab a vase quickly before changing into the dress Sam sent. But now, standing here in nothing but silk and skin, I felt far too exposed.
My arms instinctively wrapped around my waist, pulling the fabric tighter.
And then—
A firm hand gripped my arm.
"Bonjour, monsieur," the maid greeted, bowing politely to whoever had come up behind me.
No reply. Just silence.
I turned slowly.
Sam.
His eyes locked onto mine, burning with intensity. Before I could speak, he pulled me firm and fast back into my room and slammed the door shut behind us.
"What are you wearing?" His voice was sharp, cutting, edged with a fury I hadn't seen since the night he first lost control.
"My nightie," I whispered, voice trembling. The spot where he held me ached, but I didn't dare complain.
He stepped closer, his face inches from mine.
"Outside the four walls of your room?" His jaw tightened. "Don't try me, Sarah."
His finger pointed toward me like a loaded gun.
"You don't go around exposing yourself. I make the rules here. I say who can see you like this. And who can't. Do you understand me?"
Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes and spilled down without my permission. His voice, so angry… so possessive… it pierced right through me. The way he flipped from warmth to fire—it made my heart twist painfully.
He didn't wait for a reply.
Just turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
I stood frozen. Shaking.
My chest rose and fell too fast. My heart thudded louder than I could bear.
And still, part of me… wanted to be near him.
***Sam's POV****
"You sounded tense over the phone, Sam. What's wrong?" Grace asked as she dropped her bag and walked toward me, voice drenched in fake concern.
I looked at her, and all I saw was a mask.
She didn't care about me—never did.
She wanted the name, the money, the power.
I shrugged.
"Just tired. Needed something to take the edge off."
"Is it the wedding?" she pressed, brows lifting with feigned softness.
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
Instead, I pulled her in and crashed my lips onto hers. I didn't care about tenderness. I didn't want comfort. I wanted to forget. I wanted to erase the image of her—of Sarah—in that nightie. The silk clinging to her skin. The softness of her expression when she smiled. The way my name trembled on her lips.
I needed to break free from that grip she had on me.
Grace's knees hit the floor. Her hands worked quickly. I leaned back and let my head fall as her mouth did its job. It was good. Technically perfect.
But it wasn't Sarah.
I was already hard, hard from the sight of Sarah, God she looked so beautiful,
I needed release. Grace stood, peeled her clothes off without finesse, and climbed onto my lap. Her body moved rhythmically, moans rising from her throat as she bounced.
It felt good—physically. But my mind refused to play along.
My fingers dug into her hips as I grunted. Still not enough.
I turned her over onto the bed, gripped her waist, and drove into her with everything I had. The headboard slammed the wall, her voice rang out with each thrust—pleasure mixed with a sharp edge of pain. She cried out my name like it meant something.
But it didn't.
Not anymore.
All I could see was Sarah.
Her lips. Her eyes. Her scent.
I was chasing a high that belonged to someone else.
I pushed harder. Deeper. Until my release crashed through me like a wave—hard and hollow.
And then… silence.
She lay there panting. I stepped away.
Still breathless. Still unsatisfied.
Still wanting Sarah.