The ticking sound of the clock echoed faintly in the sleek glass-walled boardroom of Monsiago Enterprises, but Andrew wasn't listening. His mind was drafted somewhere else, somewhere far from market projections, quarterly targets, and profit margins. He sat at the head of the long obsidian table, jaw clenched, the back of his pen pressed into his sleek iPad as executives filled the room with charts, graphs, and financial analyses.
He could hear their words, but they were muffled, like they belonged to another world. He wasn't here. Not really. His eyes scanned the room, meeting the kind of quiet, dangerous power that made people lower their voices when they walked past him, causing investors to adjust their posture and stammer nervously when they said his name.
But none of that mattered. Not today. Not this moment. Only her name whispered in his ears.
Bella.
The memory of her lingered on the edges of his mind like a persistent ache. The night before replayed itself in painstaking detail: the heat of her breath, the subtle scent of her perfume, the way her fingers had dug into his back as she whispered his name, not playfully, not teasingly, but like she needed him. Like she wanted him in ways Andrew hadn't allowed himself to want anyone in years.
No. No, no. They weren't lovers. They weren't committed. This was nothing but rules, and midnight mistakes, and the dangerous comfort of skin pressed against skin.
Friends with benefits. Friends who touched each other like they were starving.
They'd laughed about it once over wine, when she told him commitment was a chain around her neck and he joked that relationships were a distraction to kings. And yet, here he was, consumed by the absence of her warmth, feeling like a hollowed-out king with nothing but ambition to cling to.
"Mr. Monsiago?" Timothy, his strategy director, spoke, voice tight with tension. "The Asia expansion plan, should we table that for next quarter?"
Andrew blinked once, his jaw unclenching just slightly. He adjusted his suit and cleared his throat, trying to ground himself in the professional world. "No," he said quietly, coldly. "Push it through. I want results by Friday. And no delay."
"Yes, sir," Timothy stammered, retreating to his seat, but the man's concern was evident. Andrew didn't care about Asia. Or Europe. Or any of the seven companies under his name. His thoughts weren't on profit margins or international investors. They were on the curve of her lips, the way she had kissed his chest last night, murmuring, "I missed this."
Why did she say that like they were in a relationship?
Why did she kiss him as if it meant something more than nothing?
His fingers tightened around the pen. The leather under his palms felt insignificant compared to the ache rising in his chest. Andrew stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the marble floor, causing silence to fall across the boardroom.
"The meeting's over," he said, voice sharp.
Timothy sputtered. "Sir? But the numbers..."
"Email me the numbers."
Andrew didn't wait for further protests. He turned, walking out of the room, his Italian shoes striking the marble in precise, deliberate rhythm. His assistant rushed to catch up.
"Mr. Monsiago, you still have lunch with the Singapore investors..."
"Cancel it," he said, voice flat.
"Sir?"
He didn't answer. He was already pressing the elevator button, thinking of Bella, thinking of the night before, thinking of how impossible she was becoming. How uncontrollable.
He didn't want this. He didn't want to feel this way.
But Andrew Monsiago was losing his grip. And it was all because of a woman who had insisted they were just friends. Just sex. No strings, no hearts, no expectations.
And before he knew it, he was driving through Manhattan, the car gliding along streets filled with lights, the smell of rain and asphalt mixing with his thoughts, all of them centered on Bella.
The tiny gold bell above the glass door jingled gently as he walked into Luxè Jewellery, a boutique tucked into a quiet corner of the city. It smelled like vanilla, lavender, and something faintly familiar, like the lingering warmth of her skin. Andrew's mind refused to let him stay rational. He shouldn't be here.
He knew that.
But Andrew Monsiago wasn't used to limits. Rules were challenges, boundaries were invitations. And desire? Desire was a battlefield.
His eyes scanned the boutique. She was at the back, bent over her sketchbook, fingers moving fluidly as if conjuring magic. Light caught her curls, making them shine like a halo. She hadn't seen him yet.
He let his gaze linger, taking in the white high-waisted trousers hugging her hips, the black top molding to her curves. Every subtle gesture she made, every small movement, commanded the room without trying. Two men outside the boutique had stopped mid-step to stare.
Andrew's jaw clenched.
"Don't tell me I'm hallucinating," he said, voice low and teasing, though his heart raced.
Bella looked up, her eyes flicking lazily toward him before curving into a cool, knowing smile. Not flustered. Not surprised. Amused.
"Mr. Monsiago," she said smoothly. "We don't do walk-ins from multi-millionaires."
He stepped closer, stopping at the glass counter. "Since when?"
She closed her notebook with a soft snap. "What are you doing here?"
Andrew tilted his head. "You didn't pick up my call this morning."
"Because it was eight-thirty in the morning, and you left early."
"I was still thinking about you."
A soft chuckle escaped her lips. "That's sweet, Andrew. But this isn't part of our agreement, remember?"
He said nothing.
She sighed, stepping around the counter, hips swaying naturally. "This is my work, not your bedroom. You don't show up here as if you own it."
"I don't want to own this place, Bella."
"Then what do you want?"
"You."
Her dimples deepened as she smirked. "No, you don't. You want the idea of me. The game. The sex."
"That's not true."
"So if I said no more sex, would you still show up like this?"
He hesitated. That was her answer.
"Exactly," he whispered.
"Andrew, let's not get to that stage right now. But I'm not yours. You agreed to this. We both did."
"I didn't know it would feel like this."
"That's your problem," she replied firmly. "Not mine."
He swallowed, tall and imposing, and felt the memory of her hands, her voice, her warmth, burning inside him.
The bell jingled again. A customer walked in. Bella turned instantly professional, greeting the newcomer.
Andrew remained frozen, staring at her retreating.
Pleasure, not possession.
But Andrew didn't want pleasure anymore. He wanted her. Every piece, every second, every fragile moment she allowed him. And slowly, she was becoming the only thing he couldn't control.