Disclaimer: The author's imagination and passion are the only sources of inspiration for this novel, which is a work of dedication. Parallels between these pages and the past or present may be apparent to some readers, but they are completely coincidental. You are free to interpret this art anyway you see fit, and it is meant for your enjoyment.
The guest suite of Zayden Spencer's penthouse was less of a room and more of a glass-walled sanctuary—or a prison, depending on who was holding the key. It was decorated in shades of charcoal, slate, and cold marble, mirroring the man who owned it. For Ysabella, it felt like being trapped inside a diamond: beautiful, sharp, and impossible to break out of.
She had spent the last two hours pacing the length of the Italian silk rug. Every time she approached the door, she saw the shadow of a guard through the frosted glass. Every time she looked out the window, the dizzying height of the Makati skyline reminded her that there was no way down except through him.
A soft chime echoed through the room, and the heavy oak door swung open. Zayden stood there, having shed his tie and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his black shirt. The golden hair on his chest peeked through, and his sleeves were rolled up, showcasing the intricate, dark tattoos that snaked up his muscular forearms—symbols of a life lived in the trenches of power.
"Dinner is served," he said, his American accent sounding smoother, more melodic in the quiet of the night. "Unless you plan on starving yourself out of spite."
"I'm not hungry," Ysabella lied, though her stomach betrayed her with a loud, traitorous growl.
Zayden's lips quirked into a ghost of a smirk. "Your stomach is a much better truth-teller than you are, Ysabella. Come."
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and walked toward the dining area, confident she would follow. And she did, if only because staying in that room was making her lose her mind.
The dining table was a massive slab of polished obsidian. Two places were set, separated by a distance that felt both too far and not far enough. The food was exquisite—traditional Filipino flavors elevated by French techniques—but Ysabella could hardly taste the adobo reduction.
She sat stiffly, her movements mechanical. Every time she looked up, she found those crystalline blue eyes fixed on her. He wasn't eating; he was observing. He watched the way she held her fork, the way her throat moved when she swallowed, and especially the way she kept gnawing on her lower lip.
The silence grew heavy, thick with the unsaid. Ysabella's anxiety spiked. Her habit took over; her teeth sank into the soft, pink flesh of her bottom lip, dragging against it as she worried about what her father would think, or how Mateo would react if he found her here.
"Stop biting your lip, fuck. It's distracting."
The curse word was low, a jagged vibration that seemed to ripple across the table. Ysabella jumped, her fork clattering against the plate. She looked up, startled. Zayden's gaze wasn't cold anymore—it was burning. His pupils were blown wide, leaving only a thin ring of blue around the dark centers.
"I... I do it when I'm nervous," she stammered, her face flushing a deep crimson.
"Then stop being nervous," he countered, leaning forward, his large hands flat on the obsidian surface. "Or do it because you want to, not because you're scared of me."
"How can I not be scared?" Ysabella's voice rose, a spark of her hidden fire finally catching. "You kidnapped me! You have guns! You look at me like... like I'm a problem you're trying to solve with a calculator!"
Zayden let out a dry, dark chuckle. "You are a problem, Ysabella. You're a variable I didn't account for. And I hate variables."
"I'm innocent, ano pa ba gusto mo?" she groaned, her frustration finally boiling over. She stood up abruptly, her chair screeching against the floor. "I'm just a girl! I have a boring job and a boring life! Just let me go back to my boring apartment!"
She was gesturing wildly, her hazel eyes flashing with a mix of tears and temper. She started to pace around the table, her heart racing. Zayden watched her, his head turning like a predator tracking a bird.
"You don't belong in a boring apartment," Zayden said softly. "You belong in places like this. You fit the scenery too well."
"I don't want the scenery! I want my life back!"
She turned to face him, intending to march toward the door, but her heel caught on the edge of the heavy rug. Her balance, never her strongest suit, vanished instantly.
"Whoa—"
She lunged forward, hands outstretched to catch herself on the table, but she overshot. Instead of hitting the cold stone, she collided with something warm, firm, and overwhelmingly large.
In a blur of motion, Ysabella didn't land on the chair beside him. Her hips met his thighs, and she landed squarely, heavily, on Zayden's lap.
The air left her lungs in a sharp woosh.
One of Zayden's hands instinctively flew to her waist to steady her, his large palm spanning nearly the entire width of her side. The other hand gripped her upper arm. The contact was electric. Through the thin fabric of her office slacks and his silk trousers, she could feel the hard, powerful muscles of his legs.
Ysabella froze, her hands resting awkwardly on his broad shoulders. Her face was inches from his. She could smell the bourbon on his breath, the expensive cedarwood of his cologne, and the raw, intoxicating scent of a man who was used to getting exactly what he wanted.
"I... I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice failing her. "I slipped. Again."
Zayden didn't move. He didn't push her off, and he didn't let go. His grip on her waist tightened slightly, his thumb grazing the soft skin just above her hip bone.
"You are incredibly clumsy, Ysabella," he murmured, his American accent dropping into a register that made her toes curl. "Or incredibly bold."
"I'm not bold! I'm just... I have bad shoes!"
She tried to scramble up, but the position was awkward, and her movements only caused her to grind against him. She heard a sharp, hissed intake of breath from Zayden. His jaw tightened so hard she thought his teeth might crack.
Ysabella went rigid. She looked down and saw his hand—the tanned skin, the prominent veins, the sheer strength of it—clutching her waist. She felt a strange heat blooming in her lower belly, a sensation she had never felt before. It wasn't fear. It was something far more dangerous.
She looked back at his face. His blue eyes were scanning her features, landing on her lips again.
"You're shaking," he noted.
"Because you're scary," she whispered, though her heart wasn't in the lie anymore.
"Am I?" Zayden's hand moved from her waist, sliding up her back, pulling her inches closer until their chests were almost touching. "Or are you shaking because you can feel what you're doing to me?"
"I... I'm not doing anything."
"You're existing, Ysabella. That seems to be enough."
Zayden felt a primitive urge to claim her right then and there. The logic that usually governed his life—the cold, American-bred efficiency—was being drowned out by the hot, Filipino blood of his mother's lineage, a bloodline of passion and territorial fire. He wanted to know why this girl, of all people, had the power to make him forget his billion-dollar losses.
He reached up, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, his touch feather-light. "Tell me the truth. Just once. Who is Mateo?"
The name hit Ysabella like a bucket of ice water. Her eyes widened, and the spell of the moment shattered. She tried to pull back, but Zayden's arm was a band of iron around her.
"How... how do you know that name?" she gasped.
Zayden's eyes darkened. "I told you. I don't like loose ends. I found a ghost in your records. A name that was scrubbed with the kind of precision only a professional—or a king—could afford. Mateo Ramirez. Your brother."
Ysabella's heart plummeted. If Zayden knew about Mateo, then the "clean and boring" life she had fought so hard for was over. Worse, she had led a shark straight to her brother's door.
"He has nothing to do with this," she pleaded, her voice cracking. "He doesn't even know where I am. Please, don't involve him."
"Don't involve him?" Zayden leaned in, his nose brushing hers. "Sweetheart, if he's who I think he is, he's already involved. The question is, are you the bait, or are you the prize?"
"I'm just his sister!"
"And I'm just a businessman," Zayden countered with a cynical smirk.
He looked at her, his gaze softening for a split second as he took in her distress. He hated that he cared. He hated that seeing her upset made him want to find whoever was scaring her—even if it was himself—and break them.
He shifted her on his lap, his hand returning to the small of her back. "You're going to tell me everything, Ysabella. Over coffee. And this time," he glanced at his stained shirt draped over a nearby chair, "try not to spill it."
"And if I don't?" she asked defiantly, though she was still sitting on his lap, her body betraying her by leaning into his warmth.
Zayden's thumb traced her lower lip, pulling it down slightly. "Then I'll just have to keep you here until you do. And I think we both know... You wouldn't hate it as much as you pretend to."
Ysabella bit her lip again—partly out of habit, partly to stop herself from leaning into his touch.
"Stop," he growled, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "I told you. It's distracting. And I'm running out of patience."
Before she could respond, the silence of the penthouse was shattered by the muffled sound of an explosion from the floor below. The glass windows vibrated, and the lights flickered.
Zayden was on his feet in a second, lifting Ysabella with him as if she weighed nothing. He thrust her behind him, his hand reaching for the gun at his back in one fluid, practiced motion.
"Boss!" Marcus's voice came through the intercom, sounding urgent. "The perimeter is breached! It's the Ramirez crew! They found us!"
Zayden's blue eyes snapped to Ysabella. For a moment, suspicion flared in them—the cold, calculating Mafia Boss was back.
"Did you lead them here?" he hissed.
"No! I swear!" Ysabella cried, clutching his arm. "I didn't call anyone!"
Another explosion rocked the building. Zayden grabbed her hand, his grip crushing. "Whatever happens next, stay behind me. If you run, you're dead. Do you understand?"
Ysabella nodded, terrified. The boring life she had craved was gone. The two worlds—the one her brother hid and the one Zayden ruled—had just collided, and she was trapped right in the center of the impact.
Zayden checked his weapon, his American accent giving way to a low, lethal command in Tagalog.
"Maghanda na kayo. Walang ititira." (Get ready. Leave no one alive.)
He looked back at Ysabella, his gaze lingering on her lips one last time. "We'll finish our conversation later. If we survive."