Chapter 6: Voicemail Confessions

Chapter 6: Voicemail Confessions

GLORIA'S POV

Okay, this is one of the craziest things I’ve ever heard in my entire life.

I glance down at my phone, eyes wide, heart thudding loud in my chest. This is crazy. Completely fucking insane. Out of bounds. This guy—this fucking lunatic—is really as psycho as they say he is. Just… what the fuck is this?

Frustration crawls up my throat. I can’t go ahead with this. What the hell is his problem?

My attention snaps to the waiter standing a few meters away. He’s hovering too close, like a curious stray dog. Watching. His expression borders on entertained, like my personal life is some kind of tawdry reality show playing out in front of him. I narrow my eyes, jaw clenched.

“Go back to your messenger,” I bite out, my voice sharp as a whip. “And tell him to leave me the fuck alone.”

The waiter chuckles, a slow, deliberate sound that makes my spine bristle. “Well, I don’t really know about that. He seems pretty determined to get what he wants,” he says, and there’s something in his tone—just enough menace laced with amusement—that makes my skin crawl. “And if you keep resisting... from what I’ve heard about him? He’s not the type to give up easy. There might be consequences if you try to keep pushing him away.”

I glare at him, hard enough to set him on fire if I could, then shove my fingers roughly through my hair. “I can’t go along with this. This is fucking ridiculous,” I hiss under my breath. “For heaven’s sake, I have a husband.”

The waiter’s gaze flicks around the room like he’s about to perform a magic trick. “So where is your husband?”

I groan, exasperated. “He went to greet some fucking businessmen, okay? He’s occupied right now.”

The waiter chuckles again, then shakes his head with mock disappointment. “The fact that your husband isn’t by your side at a gala like this—where every other man here would sell his soul to just look at you—that tells me everything I need to know. He’s not protective. He’s not present. He doesn’t give a damn. So honestly? You’re the one playing the fool here.”

My lips curl in disgust. “You are very stupid, you know that?”

He just shrugs. “Don’t blame me for trying to help you.”

I whip around from him, breathing hard. My hand goes to my temple as I rake my fingers through my hair again, clenching them tight into my scalp. This is madness. The most insane fucking thing I’ve heard all year.

I look at my phone again. The ridiculous message from that sick bastard is still on the screen. My jaw tightens as I close my eyes and exhale hard. Then my fingers fly over the keyboard.

Fuck you. Get out of my head. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to know you. I made a big mistake getting tangled with you. So just fucking fuck off out of my life.

I stab the send button like I’m plunging a knife, then toss my phone on the table, frustrated beyond belief.

Behind me, the waiter starts laughing. Not chuckling. Laughing. Loud and carefree.

“You can keep pretending like you don’t want him,” he says between laughs, already stepping back. “But it won’t take long. Sooner or later, he’s going to get to you. He always does.”

I don’t even bother glaring again—he’s already walking away. Asshole. Him, Tristan, the entire fucking room. They can all go to hell.

I snatch up my purse and storm out of the building, heels biting against marble as I walk fast, no longer caring who sees me or what kind of scene I might be making. This gala means nothing anymore. I don’t care about appearances. I don’t care if it looks like I’m disrespecting my husband.

Let it look that way. Let it all burn.

This is crazy.

I push through the large entrance doors, finding myself outside under the sweep of nighttime stars. A few meters ahead, I spot the garden—huge, softly lit, beautifully manicured. Empty. Quiet. Still. Not a soul in sight. It feels like some secret haven, tucked away from the noise, the eyes, the voices.

Perfect.

I hurry toward it, my legs moving on instinct, my breath shallow. Once inside, I find a column at the edge of the patio—white, smooth, cool to the touch—and lean against it, trying to slow my thoughts. I press my head back against the marble and exhale, long and shaking.

Then… my phone rings.

The screen lights up with a number I’ve come to dread. I don’t have to look twice. It’s him.

Tristan.

I stare at it, heart hammering. I don’t pick up. It rings again. And again. Three full times.

Still, I don’t answer.

Then comes the voicemail.

I stare at it like it’s a snake about to bite. My thumb hovers, trembling. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.

But I do.

His voice flows into my ears like dark silk—low, husky, deep, and unmistakably male. Seductive in a way that’s unfair, dangerous, and wrong. My knees nearly give out beneath me. My breath catches.

He’s reading.

My diary.

Oh God.

My diary. Every word I’d written in private, every filthy thought I scribbled when the ache inside me got too sharp. Every forbidden fantasy. Every time I’d felt trapped, suffocated, needy, crawling inside my skin with a hunger I couldn’t name—not even beside my husband.

And Tristan... he’s reading it.

He reads it slow. Deep. Every syllable caresses the inside of my ears, wrapping around my spine like a coil. My hand clenches at the fabric of my dress. My teeth grind together.

How the fuck did he get it? Is he following me? Watching me? Has he been stalking me all this time?

A cold rush of horror spirals through me—followed immediately by something hotter. Something I’m too ashamed to name.

He reaches the part about the night I touched myself with my husband sleeping inches away… and I can’t breathe. My knees knock together. My thighs press tight, instinctively. My pussy clenches with a sudden pulse that robs me of thought.

“Ah—fuck—” I whisper, breathless, grabbing at the pillar for support.

His voice continues—intimate, deliberate. He reads about my craving to be taken hard, used, consumed, ruined. He reads about how badly I wanted to be caught. About how I imagined him watching me from the shadows.

I’m wet. Soaking.

The moan catches in my throat before I can swallow it down. I shake, trembling as I try to resist the tide rising in me. But it’s no use.

“Fuck…”

I don’t know how I start. I just do. My nightgown is lifted before I even register the movement. My fingers slide up my thighs—hot, flushed skin quivering under my own touch—until I reach my slick, aching center. I gasp, my body shuddering with the first press of my fingers.

“Ohh—nnhhh—”

I move faster, chasing the high his voice keeps feeding me. My hips grind against my hand, breath breaking with every twist of pleasure. His voice paints every detail I wrote, and it’s like he’s right here, whispering into my ear, watching me fall apart for him. My head tips back, back arching as the moans rip free.

“Aahh—fuck, Tristan—!”

I cry out, loud and desperate, my orgasm barreling through me like a storm breaking loose. It floods through every limb, trembling, leaving me limp and gasping against the pillar. My heart slams in my chest.

And all I can whisper, eyes half-lidded, body still twitching in aftershock, is his name.

Tristan.