Chapter Three – Forbidden Thoughts

(In the car – 8:15 a.m)

Angel

The black Jaguar glided through the streets of São Paulo, but my attention wasn’t on the view. It was on his hands.

Lucas drove with just one hand on the wheel — long, firm fingers, veins subtly visible under his skin. Strong hands. Hands that knew how to dominate.

What would it feel like to have those hands somewhere else?

The image invaded my mind without permission: his fingers sliding down my waist, gripping my skin, holding me with the same firmness he used on the wheel…

"You okay?"

His voice pulled me out of the daydream.

"What?"

"You’re flushed." He glanced at me, brow slightly furrowed. "If you’re gonna throw up, give me a heads-up. I don’t want you ruining the leather seats."

"Such a gentleman," I snapped, leaning back. "Don’t worry, your car’s safe. I’m not gonna puke."

I’m just thinking about how your hands could do much worse to me.

He didn’t reply, but his fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Had he picked up on something?

I crossed my arms and looked out the window. On the outside, I was offended. On the inside… well, I was still thinking about his hands.

What kind of masochism was this?

"You’re unbearable today," Lucas muttered after a tense silence.

"Oh, I’m sorry, Lucas. Not everyone wakes up perfect after a night of self-destruction."

He let out a dry laugh.

"You didn’t destroy your life. You just did what you always do."

"What’s that?"

"Seek attention." He looked at me, and this time, there was something in his eyes that knocked the air out of my lungs. "Only this time, it didn’t work on me."

My heart pounded. Was that a challenge? A provocation?

"Don’t play shrink, Lucas."

"Don’t play the victim, Angel."

The silence that followed was heavy. I stared out the window, feeling the heat rising in my face, my body still buzzing with those forbidden thoughts.

He hated me. I hated him.

So why didn’t my body agree?

And worse: why did he seem to know exactly what I was thinking?

(Figueiredo Group – 8:45 a.m.)

The corporate elevator climbed in silence, but the air between me and Lucas was thick with tension, only making my hangover worse. He kept his eyes locked on the numbers lighting up on the panel. I, on the other hand, felt every beat of my heart like a hammer pounding in my skull.

"Remember the deal," he said, not looking at me.

"Which one?"

"You keep quiet, listen to what your grandmother has to say, and don’t start any trouble."

I smirked, sarcastic.

"And what if I refuse?"

He finally turned his head. His dark eyes slowly, deliberately scanned my body before meeting mine.

"Then I’ll put you in time-out."

The tone was low, almost a growl. And God forgive me, something inside me clenched.

The ding of the elevator saved us from whatever answer I might have given.

The doors opened, revealing the executive floor of the Figueiredo Group: smoked glass, thick carpets, and the heavy silence of people who worked with power.

We walked down a wide hallway until we reached what I guessed was the waiting area outside my grandmother’s office.

The reception was sleek. Minimalist. And there she was: the watchtower of my new prison.

Iolanda.

Sitting behind a glass conference table, she was speaking with two men in suits. As soon as she saw me, she dismissed them with a light wave. They stood up immediately.

"Come in, Angel."

I took a deep breath. I walked in and realized Lucas had stayed behind. I understood then that this would be a conversation just between my grandmother and me. I didn’t even need to look back to know he had gone full soldier mode again—perfect posture, unreadable expression.

"Good morning, Grandma."

Instead of responding, Iolanda gave a pointed glance at the watch on her wrist.

"You’re late."

I shrugged, too drained to argue. She watched me for a moment that dragged on a little too long.

"You’ll start today as a junior assistant on Lucas’s team."

I blinked.

"Sorry, what?"

"You heard me." She removed her glasses, wiping them with a silk cloth. "You’ll assist Carolina with administrative tasks and learn how this company works. Lucas will be your direct supervisor."

Her voice was sweet, but I heard the entire subtext.

"So basically... you’ve put me under official surveillance."

"No. We’re giving you a chance to prove you can coexist with responsibility. The rest is up to you."

I wanted to scream. Break something. Run away again.

But I looked through the glass wall at Lucas, and he just raised an eyebrow, like he was silently saying Not here.

So I agreed, crossing my arms.

"Great. Let’s play pretend at being useful." It was all I could get out without putting my credit card and bank account at risk.

I left Iolanda’s office with a churning stomach—whether from the hangover or the insane urge to bolt, I wasn’t sure.

Lucas was exactly where I had left him: standing, arms crossed, face so calm it made me want to punch something.

"You knew!" I accused the moment the door shut behind me.

"Of course I knew," he replied, stepping forward with the same ease as if saying, "Rain is in the forecast."

"And I figured you’d know too. Or is your hangover keeping you from grasping the obvious?"

"I thought she’d punish me, not hand you the pleasure of having me around all day."

"Funny," he said with a slight smile, "because I thought the exact opposite—like I was the one being punished."

Before I could fire back, he turned his back and started walking down the hall.

"Come on, Angel. Let’s get this corporate theater started."

I huffed but followed him. The floor was way too quiet. People are way too serious. And me? A walking disaster with smudged lipstick and an urge to burn everything to the ground.

Lucas pushed open a glass door with his name in gold lettering. Corner office, panoramic city view, sober furniture, the kind of place where million-dollar deals were made over black coffee.

In the anteroom, a perfectly organized desk, an ergonomic chair, and a girl who could only be Carolina.

Blonde, slim, elegant. Every strand of hair was pulled into a flawless bun. She typed with speed and grace, like someone who ruled the world with three clicks. When she saw us walk in, she stood with an automatic smile—one that froze the second she realized I wasn’t just a casual visitor.

"Carolina," Lucas said, getting straight to the point, "this is Angel Figueiredo. Starting today, she’ll be shadowing you and helping with the team’s tasks."

Her smile froze for half a second.

"Of course. How... interesting." The pause was subtle, but I caught it.

"Welcome, Angel."

"‘Interesting’ is a kind word," I replied, flashing my best sarcastic smile.

Lucas ignored the tone. He pointed to an empty side desk pushed against the wall.

"That’ll be your workstation for now. Start by observing. Then, you execute."

"Wow. Can’t wait to learn how to send a corporate email," I muttered.

"Angel," he said through clenched teeth, voice low, "cooperate. Or I’ll personally request your desk be moved to the break room."

Carolina let out a soft chuckle. I didn’t like her. And she didn’t like me.

I stood for a few seconds, looking around. His office. His scent is in the air. The way he owned the space without even trying.

And then I looked at him again. At his well-kept fingers, the leather bracelet snug on his wrist, the top button of his shirt casually undone at the collar.

Damn.

I felt my cheeks heat up, as if my imagination had suddenly come to life.

He noticed.

"You okay?" he asked, not even looking up. "If you’re gonna throw up, give me a heads-up. This office was just renovated."

"Go fuck yourself, Lucas."

"Ah," he said, finally glancing at me with that crooked smirk, "the workday has officially started."

Carolina cleared her throat. And I thought to myself: this is going to be a long, long day.