Chapter 5: The Message That Burned

Chapter 5: The Message That Burned

GLORIA'S POV

Okay, everything is just extremely crazy right now.

I find myself chuckling out loud and shaking my head as I glance at him from the far end of the room. He’s lounging back with that expressive, maddening confidence that says he already owns the moment, maybe even the whole damn night. That smirk on his lips is almost lazy, like he knows he’s gotten exactly what he wanted, and it’s making my insides twist. The slight shift in his jaw, the way his knuckles flex on the armrest—God, it sends a rippling sensation crawling down my body like smoke sliding over bare skin.

Stop it, Gloria. Don’t even think about it.

I clench my fists gently on my lap, trying to breathe, trying to shake the intrusive thought that invades my head like an unwelcome lover whispering dark temptations.

But wouldn’t it be a nice night?

Wouldn’t it?

The thought slips in, raw and smooth. No resistance. No guilt. Just pure, primal curiosity, and a hunger I thought I’d buried long ago. The thought rolls around in my mind, sensual and unrepentant: Should I hook up with this guy?

I blink rapidly, my chest tightening. What the fuck am I thinking?

A nervous chuckle escapes me as I scratch my head and force myself to look away, eyes darting back to the phone I’m pretending to scroll through. I can’t. That would be unforgivable. Unfair to David. Even if he hasn’t touched me properly in what feels like months, even if he’s forgotten how to even look at me without being prompted, I can't do this. Not tonight. Not on his big night. Not when we’re here to celebrate him landing what he called the most important deal of his entire career.

And yet my body betrays me. My thoughts betray me. That underground night five days ago opened something inside me that hasn’t stopped screaming since. This insatiable throb that refuses to be silenced, and now... now this gorgeous, powerful man is feeding it like it’s his right.

I glance up at the waiter still lingering nearby, wearing that polite, unreadable smile. I clear my throat.

"Please," I say softly, politely, trying to summon some kind of grace. "Tell him I really appreciate it, but this just isn’t the right time. I’d really like to be by myself right now."

The waiter tilts his head, hesitating for a moment before shrugging, his expression quirking into something a little cheekier. "If you say so, ma’am. But anyone who turns down an offer like that from someone like him... well, I’d call that person really, really silly. You don’t get opportunities like this twice. It’s once in a lifetime, if that."

And just like that, he turns and walks away, leaving his words dangling in the air like a dare.

I exhale sharply, roll my eyes, and try to convince myself again: I am not doing this.

This is not happening.

I shift in my seat, gripping my phone tighter, eyes trying to focus on the screen while my mind struggles to ignore the beautiful, sex-drenched temptation sitting across the room with that look that could strip me bare from across continents. No. I won’t let him get to me. I refuse.

I keep typing random nonsense into my phone. Anything. Just something to keep my mind busy. All I want now is to get this night over with. Go home. Maybe bury my face in a pillow and pretend I didn’t just come this close to spiraling into lust again. God knows what I’ll do when I’m alone—again—unsatisfied—again—left to fend for myself again while David claims exhaustion and snores through what should’ve been our sex life.

I chuckle bitterly at the thought, the sound hollow and tired.

Still, that doesn’t mean I should be unfaithful. Not tonight.

I shake my head and return my focus to the screen, heart still pounding as I try to anchor myself.

And then I feel it. Movement.

Behind me.

I turn sharply.

It’s the waiter again, gliding up like he never left. I frown. Doesn’t he ever give up?

He’s smiling—same charm, same patience. Like he’s amused by how all this is playing out. “Well,” he begins, placing something delicately into my palm, “I don’t know what kind of star is floating above your head tonight, ma’am, but most people don’t get a second chance at moments like this. He asked me to give this to you.”

He drops a piece of folded paper into my hand.

It feels heavier than it should, like it carries more than ink.

I stare at it for a moment like it’s something venomous.

“He really doesn’t give up, does he?” I mutter.

The waiter chuckles. “Apparently, he’s seen something in you worth chasing.”

I snort softly, unamused, but I still unfold the paper, curiosity strangling any sense of reason. The message inside isn’t long. But it nearly sends me falling backward in my chair.

Your pussy felt so slick and hot the other night.

I can still hear your moans.

The way you kept calling my name while I fucked you in that dark corner—

I’ll never forget it.

Oh my god.

No. No, no, no.

My bottom lip slips between my teeth, and I bite down hard, trying to keep from gasping as the memory slams into me like a hurricane. That night. The club. The shadows. The hand over my mouth. The whispered name I never quite caught.

Tristan?

Was he the one?

Was he the man who drove me to the brink and then kept pushing?

I turn my head in stunned silence, scanning the crowd until my eyes land on him again. He’s still watching me, calm as ever, and then—he winks.

That wicked, arrogant, soul-shattering wink.

My thighs clench under the table as heat pulses between them. My nipples peak against the fabric of my dress. My mouth dries out. Holy fucking shit.

Tristan Vale.

I actually got tangled up with him?

He’s infamous. Not just for his money or empire or charm—but for his hunger. He doesn’t do one-night stands. When he tastes something he likes, he consumes it—again and again—until there’s nothing left but trembling limbs and frayed sanity.

And now I’ve walked into his trap.

Again.

The waiter shifts beside me. “Oh, one more thing,” he says casually, placing a silky object in my hand.

I look down. Lingerie.

My cheeks flush a deep, furious red. “What the fuck is this?” I ask, stunned.

The waiter shrugs, unbothered. “I don’t know. I’m just the messenger. But he told me to give it to you. Is it yours?”

I shove it back at him, shaking my head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve never met him before. I don’t know what this is about.”

He shrugs again, unaffected. “Well, he said you’d understand. Oh—and here.”

Another piece of paper.

“His number,” the waiter says. “He wants to talk. If you don’t want to approach him directly, maybe texting is easier. I think he’d like that.”

I hesitate only a moment. Then I take the paper, my hand trembling as I dial the number and pull up the message field.

I type with shaking fingers:

Don’t be so fucking stupid. Stop playing games.

I send it. Heart pounding. Pulse hammering through my veins like thunder in a bottle. My body is still betraying me, damp and needy and terrified of what any of this could become. Because this won’t be a one-night indulgence. Not with him. He’ll make it permanent. He’ll keep coming back—keep coming inside me, over me, around me, until I forget how to even exist without his hands, his mouth, his cock destroying everything I thought I knew about myself.

And David...

David can never find out.

If he does, this marriage won’t just fall apart—it’ll implode.

I stare at the screen, waiting, heart kicking at my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

The typing dots appear.

My breath catches.

Then the message appears:

*Wear it.

Touch yourself.

Show me.*

......Oh, crap.