The Blackwood tower's boardroom was a crucible of tension, the scandal's fallout fueling whispered doubts and predatory glances. Eva sat at her desk outside, her black velvet dress a bold statement, its deep neckline accentuating her curves, her makeup sharp to mask the fear coiling in her chest. The bracelet gleamed, a reminder of Victor's love, but Isabelle's recent accusation—questioning Eva's credentials—had left the board restless, and Victor's discovery of a hidden file on her laptop loomed like a guillotine. Her fingers danced over her keyboard, drafting a rebuttal to a damaging news article, but her thoughts were on Victor, whose trust was fraying, and Liam, whose exile in Barbados was a ghost haunting the company. Reports confirmed Liam was hiding in a villa, drowning in whiskey, his silence a mystery Eva couldn't probe without risking her own secrets.
Isabelle Voss stood in her office, the city's lights casting shadows across the polished marble floor, her crimson silk blouse unbuttoned to reveal a hint of black lace bra, her tailored navy trousers hugging her hips, her icy blonde hair swept into a loose chignon, her green eyes glinting with ambition. At 35, she was a predator—ruthless, brilliant, her beauty a weapon, her intellect a blade. Her discovery of Marcus's offshore accounts, linked to Elena Voss's conglomerate, had deepened her fascination with him, their recent collision a fire she craved to stoke. Isabelle's ambition to unseat Eva was personal, but Marcus's cunning was a puzzle she wanted to solve, his secrets a prize she'd claim through charm or force.
Eva caught Isabelle's gaze through the glass walls, a silent gauntlet thrown, and braced herself. Isabelle approached, her heels clicking, her smile venomous. "Ms. Carter," she said, her voice smooth as velvet, "the board's restless. Victor's empire is cracking, and you're his… anchor. Any secrets dragging him down?"
The jab was a dagger, probing Eva's loyalty. Eva leaned back, her smile sultry, her fingers brushing the bracelet. "Victor's my world," she purred, her tone low, provocative. "I keep him steady, Isabelle. Hunt your own shadows, not mine."
Isabelle's eyes narrowed, her frustration simmering. "Shadows grow," she said, stepping closer, her perfume—jasmine and amber—sharp. "Yours might swallow you, Eva. I'll be there to watch."
The threat landed, but Eva held her ground, her voice a husky challenge. "Watch all you want," she said, standing, her dress hugging her curves, her posture defiant. "I don't break."
Isabelle turned away, her mind racing. Marcus's accounts were a lead, and she'd confront him tonight, her ambition a fire stoked by their volatile dynamic.
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Victor summoned Eva to his office, the glass walls framing a city now buzzing with Blackwood's disgrace. He stood by a leather sofa, his charcoal suit jacket off, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a sliver of tanned chest, his dark eyes smoldering with strain and warmth. "Lock the door," he said, his voice low, a command laced with intimacy, his presence a magnet.
Eva crossed to him, her heels silent on the plush carpet, her black velvet dress catching the light, her curves a silent invitation. "You're carrying the empire," she said, her voice husky, stopping inches from him, her scent—rose and musk—enveloping him. "Let me hold you up."
He turned, his eyes raking over her, desire flaring, but doubt lingered. "I'm trying," he said, his tone rough, stepping closer, his chest brushing hers, his breath warm. "But the file, Eva—your past, the lies. And Liam, hiding in Barbados, leaving me to clean his mess. What aren't you telling me?"
Her heart pounded, guilt and love colliding, her skin tingling under his gaze. She couldn't confess—not about the forgery or the leak—but she needed his trust. She reached for him, her fingers trailing down his chest, slipping beneath his shirt, grazing his warm skin, feeling his heartbeat. "I'm your strength," she said, her voice a sultry whisper, her lips hovering over his, her eyes blazing. "The file's nothing, Victor. Liam's gone, but I'm here. Let me prove it."
His groan was low, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her against him, her curves molding to his frame, his arousal evident. "You're fucking impossible," he growled, his lips brushing her jaw, kissing, nipping, his beard grazing her skin, eliciting a shiver. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling, her body arching, her breasts pressing against his chest.
The office was a crucible, but duty called. Eva pulled back, her breath ragged, her eyes glistening. "Tonight," she whispered, her hand brushing his cheek. "After the board, I'm yours."
Victor nodded, his eyes dark with promise, but his phone buzzed—a board member demanding Liam's status. "Still in Barbados," Victor muttered, his voice bitter. "Lost to us." Eva's guilt surged, her role in Liam's downfall a weight, but she steeled herself, ready to face the board, unaware of Damian's scheme unfolding across the sea.
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In Barbados, Liam's villa was a decadent prison, its open-air living room bathed in moonlight, the ocean's roar a constant pulse, the air thick with rum and desperation. Liam stood by a teak bar, his white linen shirt open, his jeans low on his hips, his blue eyes hazy with whiskey, his once-sharp features softened by weeks of excess. The scandal had stripped him of his title, his pride, and his future, leaving him a ghost in exile, his brother Victor's empire a distant memory. He'd fled to this villa to escape the whispers, but the isolation had only deepened his despair, his nights filled with liquor and fleeting distractions.
Cassandra Lane entered, a vision of calculated allure, planted by Damian Holt to ensnare Liam. At 27, she was a chameleon—her auburn hair cascading in waves, her amber eyes glinting with mischief, her emerald sundress clinging to her curves, its neckline plunging to reveal the swell of her breasts, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. Damian, operating in the shadows, had hired her to seduce Liam, record their encounter, and secure compromising material to blackmail him, leveraging Liam's disgrace to pressure Blackwood Enterprises. Cassandra's mission was clear: charm, seduce, capture. She crossed to Liam, her hips swaying, her smile sultry, a glass of rum in her hand, her voice low, teasing.
"Liam," she purred, stopping inches from him, her perfume—coconut and vanilla—wrapping around him like a lure. "You look lonely tonight. Need some company to forget the world?"
Liam's eyes roamed her, desire sparking through the haze, his body responding to her proximity, his voice rough with need. "You're trouble," he said, stepping closer, his chest brushing hers, his breath warm, carrying a hint of rum. "But I'm in the mood for trouble."
Her laugh was throaty, her hand sliding to his chest, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt, her nails grazing his skin, a slow tease. "Good," she whispered, her lips hovering over his, her eyes locked on his, amber fire meeting blue despair. "I'm gonna make you feel alive, Liam. Let me take you apart."
The villa was a furnace, the ocean's rhythm a primal backdrop as their bodies collided. Liam's groan was raw, his hands gripping her hips, yanking her against him, her curves molding to his frame, his arousal pressing through his jeans. "You're fucking gorgeous," he growled, his lips crashing into hers, a bruising kiss, his tongue plunging deep, tasting rum and her, a hungry edge to his desperation. Cassandra moaned, her hands roaming his shoulders, nails digging in, her hips grinding against him, feeling him harden further, her body trembling with calculated desire.
The kiss was a storm of tongues and teeth, her nails scraping his scalp, his fingers digging into her hips, a low growl escaping him as she bit his lip, drawing a bead of blood. Cassandra broke away, her breath ragged, her lips swollen, her eyes blazing. "Fuck, you kiss like you're starving," she gasped, her voice raw, her hands ripping his shirt open, exposing his chest—broad, tanned muscle, a faint scar across his ribs from a forgotten fight. Her fingers traced it, her nails scraping, her lips trailing to his collarbone, kissing, sucking, her tongue flicking, tasting salt and heat, leaving a bruise that would linger.