Page 11 of Her Naughty Billionaire

Victor smirks, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Only the best for my guests. Especially when there's potential for a fruitful partnership."

Harold nods, and as they delve into the specifics of their venture, I sip my wine. It's rich and aromatic, the kind that lingers on the palate. As the discussion becomes more intricate, Victor's subtle tactics become apparent. Every time Harold wavers or seems skeptical, Victor finds a way to weave my name or the prestige of the Carter family into the conversation.

I play my part, supporting Victor's statements when required and offering insights when probed. Yet beneath the surface, a storm brews—a blend of resentment, attraction, and a desperate need for clarity.

The undercurrents between Victor and me are undeniable. His fingers often graze mine, his gaze lingers a second too long, and his voice lowers whenever he addresses me. Every interaction is layered with tension and an underlying magnetism that I can't shake off. But is it all an act for Harold?

The conversation continues back and forth about profit margins, risk assessments, and future projections. The weight of each word, the strategic inflections, and the game of persuasion all play out before me. But as the evening progresses, the walls of the penthouse seem to close in, making it increasingly harder to breathe.

I need an escape, even if just for a moment.

Pushing back my chair, I offer a polite smile. "Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen. I could use some fresh air."

Victor nods, his gaze lingering on me a fraction too long, but I don’t wait for any remarks. The balcony's sliding doors beckon, and within moments, I'm greeted by the cool breeze of the evening.

The city sprawls out below, a tapestry of twinkling lights and distant sounds. The sky is painted in shades of indigo and deep purple, dotted with the first stars of the night. I lean against the railing, closing my eyes momentarily, letting the wind carry away some of the tension that's knotted inside.

Loyalty. Duty. Sacrifice. These words have defined my existence for as long as I can remember. I've been the dutiful daughter, always placing my family's needs and honor above my own. And that’s what this was supposed to be. The beginning of this entire charade was clear—a business arrangement, nothing more.

But now, the lines blur. Is Victor Thorn just another obligation, another duty to fulfill? Or can he be the unexpected source of happiness I've been missing? Standing here, with the vast city below and a sky full of possibilities above, I wonder: Where does Victor fit in my story?

Is it possible for us to carve out a future together, or are we destined to be just another chapter of sacrifice in my life?

A soft rustling breaks my reverie, and I turn slightly, sensing a presence. It's Victor, his silhouette stark against the soft illumination from the penthouse.

“Where’s Whitmore?” I ask.

“Making some calls,” he says. “I’m letting him use my office. So we can have some privacy.”

The implication hangs between us, making the night feel a tad warmer, the silence a little thicker.

"Privacy for what?" I tilt my head, attempting to keep my voice neutral, though my heart races erratically.

"To talk." He takes a few steps closer, closing the gap between us. The glint in his eyes reflects more than just the city's glow.

"Talk? Is that what you call it?" My attempt at humor comes out as a shaky whisper, a defense mechanism to mask the whirlwind of feelings threatening to surface.

He stops just inches away from me, his scent—sandalwood and something uniquely Victor—invading my senses. “You can call it whatever you want. But I thought we needed to clear the air.”

I pull my gaze from his, focusing on the shimmering lights of the city instead. "Clear the air about what? Your audacity at the foundation?"

His fingers lift my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “About whatever is happening between us. I'm not blind, Sophia. Nor are you.”

For a split second, vulnerability flashes in his eyes—a reminder of the outsider who fought for every inch of his success, the man beneath the polished entrepreneur. But it's gone as quickly as it came, replaced with that confident, predatory look I've come to recognize.

I take a deep breath. "You can't just play with people's lives.”

“The foundation, the deal, the power plays—it's all part of the game. But this," he gestures between us, "this is something different.” His thumb traces my jawline, causing an involuntary shiver. “You challenge me, push me in ways I hadn't anticipated. It's infuriating... and intoxicating.”

“I won't be one of your conquests, Thorn,” I retort, my voice wavering.

He chuckles darkly. “You think I see you as just another trophy? That would be far too simple. You, Sophia Carter, are a complication I hadn't accounted for.”

He closes the gap between us, his lips capturing mine for a second time with a possessiveness that leaves no room for doubt. The world fades as raw desire takes over.

The kiss is fierce, intense—a mingling of frustration, longing, and pent-up desire. I surrender myself to it, to the intensity that thrums through my veins. Victor’s lips move over mine, his hands tangling in my hair, his body pressing against mine. The balcony railing digs into my back, but I barely register the discomfort, lost in the sensations coursing through me.

This is madness. Insanity.

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