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 morning sun over the Makati skyline was a sharp, aggressive gold, filtering through the floor-to-ceiling glass of Zayden's penthouse. Ysabella stretched on the silk sheets, the vastness of the primary suite still feeling like a beautiful, intimidating dream. Beside her, the pillow was cold. A small, cream-colored note sat on the nightstand in Zayden's sharp, masculine handwriting.
Urgent crisis at the logistics firm. The port authorities are playing games again. I'll be back by lunch. Don't bite your lip while I'm gone—I'm not there to stop you. — Z.
Ysabella smiled, her fingers tracing the ink. Since the memory of their first meeting had returned, the air between them had shifted from high-tension mystery to a simmering, domestic heat. She was his "variable," and he was her "anchor," even if that anchor was currently busy commanding a multi-billion dollar empire.
She spent an hour lounging in a plush robe, drinking the artisan coffee the penthouse staff had prepared. But as she walked past the white shopping bag from La Perla sitting on the vanity, a spark of the previous day's mischief reignited.
Zayden was at work. Mateo was likely buried in his monitors in Forbes Park. For the first time in weeks, she felt completely, deliciously alone.
She locked the bedroom door—a habit of privacy she still clung to—and pulled out the midnight-blue lace.
The "Notte d'Amore" set felt like a second skin. As she stood before the triptych mirror, Ysabella felt a surge of confidence that made her blood hum. She looked like a woman who could bring a Mafia Boss to his knees. She grabbed her phone from the bed, her thumb hovering over the camera icon.
At first, she just wanted to see how it looked from different angles. One photo of her silhouette against the morning light. Another focusing on the way the lace hugged the curve of her waist. But the thrill of it—the secret power of wearing something so scandalous in the heart of Zayden's territory—made her bold.
She posed. She arched her back, letting her long black hair fall over her shoulder in a dark, messy wave. She wasn't an influencer or a model; she was just a girl who had survived a war and found herself falling for the victor.
She looked through the gallery. The photos were breathtaking—moody, elegant, and intensely intimate. They were a celebration of her recovery, a visual proof that she was no longer the fragile girl in the trauma bay.
"I look... different," she whispered to her reflection.
A sudden craving hit her—a sharp, sugary desire for the burnt cheesecake from the bakery three blocks away. She knew she shouldn't leave without the detail, but the "solo" shopping trip yesterday had given her a taste for normalcy.
She quickly threw on a pair of high-waisted jeans and an oversized white button-down, leaving the lace hidden beneath the cotton. She checked her reflection—totally innocent.
In her haste, she tossed her phone onto the unmade bed. The screen was still glowing, the gallery app open to the most recent, most revealing photo. She figured she would only be gone for fifteen minutes. The guards at the elevator would see her out, and she'd be back before the ice in her water melted.
She grabbed her keys and slipped out, the scent of cedarwood and secrets following her out the door.
Zayden Spencer didn't like being played. When the port authorities tried to "re-negotiate" a contract that had already been signed in blood, he had handled it with a terrifying, quiet efficiency that left three men sweating and one man jobless.
He had finished two hours early. All he wanted was to be back in the penthouse, to see if Ysabella was still wearing that mischievous smile from the mall.
He entered the suite silently, his footsteps muffled by the thick rugs. "Ysabella?"
Silence greeted him. He checked the kitchen—empty. He walked toward the bedroom, his heart doing a strange, protective thud when he saw the door was slightly ajar.
"Mahal?"
He stepped inside. The room smelled of her floral perfume and the lingering scent of coffee. The bed was unmade, a sign of her late morning. He assumed she was in the massive walk-in closet or perhaps the bath, but then his eyes landed on the center of the bed.
Her phone was lying face-up on the rumpled silk sheets.
Zayden wasn't a man who pried. He respected boundaries—mostly because he enforced his own with lethal force. But as he reached down to move the device so he could sit, the screen flared to full brightness.
He froze.
The image on the screen was of Ysabella. But it wasn't the Ysabella the world knew.
It was the midnight-blue lace.
She was leaning against the vanity, her head tilted back, her eyes hooded and full of a soft, beckoning fire. The light from the window hit the curves of her body, highlighting the dip of her waist and the swell of her chest beneath the intricate Venetian thread.
Zayden's breath hitched. He felt a visceral, primal pull in his gut, a heat that started in his chest and radiated outward until his hands were shaking. He swiped the screen—half-unconsciously, his brain short-circuiting.
The next photo was even more devastating. She was sitting on the edge of the bed—this bed—her hair messy, her lips slightly parted as if she were about to say his name.
The third photo was a close-up. Just the lace against her skin, and her hand resting on her hip.
Zayden sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the phone clutched in his hand. He felt like he was intruding on something sacred, yet he couldn't look away. This was his "clumsy" accountant. This was the girl who cried over spilled coffee.
She was a siren. And she was his.
The sound of the penthouse door opening and the light chime of Ysabella's humming reached his ears.
"Zayden? Are you home already?" her voice called out from the foyer, sounding cheerful and unsuspecting.
Zayden didn't move. He kept the phone in his hand, the glowing image of her in the blue lace still staring back at him. He felt a surge of possessiveness so strong it almost made him dizzy. He had wiped out the Triad to keep her alive, but looking at these photos, he realized he would burn the whole world down just to keep her hidden in this room.
Ysabella walked into the bedroom, carrying a small cardboard box from the bakery. She was smiling, her cheeks flushed from the walk.
"I got cheesecake! I thought we could—"
She stopped.
She saw Zayden sitting on the bed. She saw the dark, stormy look in his blue eyes—a look that was a thousand times more intense than the one he'd had at the mall. And then, she saw what was in his hand.
The color drained from her face, replaced instantly by a flush so hot it felt like a fever.
"Zayden! That's... give me that!" she shrieked, dropping the bakery box onto the vanity and lunging for the phone.
Zayden stood up in one fluid motion, holding the phone high above his head. He was 6'2", and Ysabella was 5'5"; it was a battle she had no hope of winning.
"You left it open," Zayden said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. "You left this... for me to find?"
"No! I didn't! I just... I was curious! I was going to delete them!" Ysabella scrambled against him, her hands pushing against his broad chest, her face buried in his shirt to hide her embarrassment. "Please, Zayden. Give it back. It's embarrassing."
Zayden dropped his hand, but he didn't give her the phone. Instead, he wrapped his other arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his body. He tilted her chin up with his thumb, forcing her to look into the blue fire of his eyes.
"Embarrassing?" he whispered, his American accent sounding rough and unpolished. "Ysabella, I have seen things in my life that would make most people go blind. I have seen empires fall and kings beg for mercy. But this?"
He gestured to the phone screen.
"This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life."
Ysabella stopped struggling. Her heart was hammering so hard she was sure he could feel it against his ribs. "You... you're not mad?"
Zayden let out a short, dark laugh. "Mad? I'm currently trying to decide if I should lock this door and never let you out of this room again. I'm trying to decide if I should find the person who made that lace and give them a medal or have them executed for making something that looks this good on you."
He leaned in, his nose brushing hers. The scent of her—the floral perfume mixed with the faint sweetness of the cheesecake—was intoxicating.
"You took these while I was at work?" he demanded softly.
"I... I wanted to see if I looked like a Mafia Queen," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Zayden's grip on her waist tightened. He looked at her—the innocent white button-down she was wearing, the jeans, the messy bun. And then he thought of what was underneath.
"You are the only Queen this city will ever have, Ysabella," Zayden said, his voice a vow. "But these photos... they don't leave this phone. Ever. If anyone else ever saw these, I would have to kill them. Do you understand?"
"I wasn't going to show anyone!"
"I don't care," Zayden growled. He stepped back, his eyes scanning her body. "The button-down. Is it underneath?"
Ysabella felt her breath catch. She nodded slowly.
Zayden reached out, his fingers hovering over the first button of her shirt. He looked at her, asking for permission with a gaze that was both predatory and profoundly respectful.
"I've been thinking about that lace since yesterday."
Zayden murmured. "I think the urgent business at the firm can wait for the rest of the afternoon."
He unbuttoned the first button. Then the second.
As the white cotton fell away, revealing the midnight-blue lace against her skin, Zayden let out a long, ragged breath. He looked at her, and Ysabella saw the man behind the Mafia Boss—the man who was utterly, hopelessly captivated by her.
"The photos were good, Ysabella," Zayden whispered, leaning down to press a burning kiss to the hollow of her throat. "But the reality is going to be much, much better."
He picked her up, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and carried her toward the bed. The phone was forgotten, the cheesecake was forgotten, and the world outside the penthouse ceased to exist.