Lara's POV
I hated Marco Blackwell for breaking my heart. But no matter how hard I tried to believe that, I could still feel his presence, his scent, lingering faintly in the air even though he was outside our house. It was maddening. Maybe I had gone insane, or maybe my foolish heart had learned the exact rhythm of his existence.
When I saw him standing there in front of our house, tall and composed like nothing had ever happened, my heart betrayed me. I wanted to run to him, to feel his arms again, to pretend for one reckless moment that I mattered to him. And the worst part was that I had agreed to have dinner with him, and the moment I said yes, I felt a rush of excitement I couldn't control.
I should have known better. I told myself not to get my hopes up. He had come to silence me, to make sure I would never tell Serene what had happened between us. I was furious at him, and yet the simple idea of him asking me to dinner sent a weak tremor through my knees.
I rummaged through my closet, choosing the last dress I would ever wear in front of Marco, the one Cammie, my best friend, had given me for my birthday. I had never dared to wear it until now.
As I slipped it on, I glanced at the mirror and froze. There it was again, the small, faint mark on my neck. I had noticed it before, back at the cabin, but I hadn't paid much attention to it then. My body had been too overwhelmed, too lost in the chaos of that night, and too hurt by how quickly Marco had turned cold the moment I woke up.
Now, in the soft glow of my bedroom light, the mark seemed more visible. A soft red imprint near my collarbone. It wasn't just a scratch. It looked almost like a bite.
I touched it gently, wincing at the tenderness beneath my fingers. Maybe it was an insect bite, I told myself. Maybe something bit me that night and I was too distracted to notice. Still, the memory of his mouth on my skin made me shiver in a way I couldn't explain.
I sighed and decided I would visit a doctor tomorrow to have it checked. For now, I let my long hair fall over it, hiding it completely.
Then I looked at myself in the mirror again. The dress clung to my body in a way that made me feel both powerful and exposed. The thin straps framed my shoulders, the neckline revealed just enough to make me blush, and the slit along the side showed my legs every time I moved.
For the first time, I didn't see the quiet secretary who spent her days behind a desk. I saw a woman who had been hurt, who was angry, and who still refused to let him see her break.
When I stepped out of the house, Marco was waiting beside his car. And the moment he saw me, he straightened, his eyes darkening as they swept over me. For a few heartbeats, neither of us moved. His gaze lingered longer than it should have, heavy and searching.
It wasn't the look of a boss. It wasn't the look of a man who felt nothing. It was something deeper that made my chest ache and my knees weaken.
And though I hated him for everything he had done, I couldn't stop the way my heart raced when he looked at me. Because even if I refused to admit it aloud, a part of me still belonged to him.
He moved toward me slowly, his expression unreadable, his eyes never leaving mine. For a moment, I thought he might actually say something that would make sense of everything that had happened between us. But he didn't.
Instead, Marco opened the car door for me. It was such a simple gesture, one that any gentleman could have done, yet coming from him, it felt different. His presence was overwhelming, his nearness intoxicating. I could smell the faint trace of his cologne, sandalwood, and something dark that always reminded me of danger.
"After you," he said softly. His voice was steady, controlled, but there was something softer beneath it that made my pulse trip.
I hesitated for a second before stepping closer. As I brushed past him, our shoulders touched, and the spark that ran through me nearly stole my breath. I pretended not to notice, forcing myself into the passenger seat and focusing on anything but the way my heart was racing.
Then he leaned in, and I froze. His hand reached across me, brushing lightly against my arm as he pulled the seatbelt over my chest. The faint warmth of his fingers burned through the fabric of my dress, leaving trails of awareness wherever they touched. I could smell him, feel the weight of his gaze, and the sound of my own heartbeat filled the quiet.
When the buckle clicked, he didn't move away immediately. For a second, his face was so close that I could see the faint shadow along his jaw, the small scar near his temple, the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. I forgot to breathe.
Then, finally, he pulled back.
"Safety first," he murmured, his tone low, almost teasing, though his expression remained unreadable.
I nodded quickly, not trusting my voice. My fingers gripped the edge of my dress to stop them from trembling.
He closed the door gently, circled around the car, and slid into the driver's seat beside me. The silence that followed was unbearable. I wanted to say something, but all the words tangled in my throat.
The car started, the low hum of the engine filling the air. The world outside blurred as we began to move, streetlights flickering across his face in soft gold. Every now and then, I stole a glance at him, trying to read the man beside me, the man who had broken me and somehow still made me feel alive.
He was too calm, his focus on the road, but his jaw tightened once, twice, as if he were fighting something.
And as I watched him, I realized that no matter how much I wanted to forget him, some foolish part of me still ached for the version of him I saw in the cabin, the one who looked at me like I was something he could not live without.
I turned my gaze back to the window, hiding the storm behind my eyes. Because I knew how this night would end.
Marco Blackwell was a man of control, of boundaries, of decisions that always left someone hurt. And tonight, that someone would be me again. Yet even knowing that, my heart still beat for him.
I wasn't prepared for what greeted me when we arrived.
The moment I stepped out of the car, the air was thick with the scent of jasmine and candlelight. The restaurant's lights were dim, golden, and soft, reflecting off the glass walls that opened to a view of the city skyline.
But what made my breath hitch was the silence. Every table was empty. Every chair unoccupied. Only one table stood in the center, beautifully set with crystal glasses and a bottle of wine already waiting.
My steps faltered as the realization sank in. He had rented the entire restaurant. I turned to him, disbelief written all over my face. "You didn't have to do this," I said, my voice barely steady. "You don't need to rent an entire place just to silence me, Mr. Blackwell."
Marco didn't reply. He only motioned toward the table, and before I could protest, he was already pulling out my chair. His movements were calm, deliberate, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary, as if he hadn't just turned the quiet evening into something painfully intimate.
Reluctantly, I sat down. The moment I did, he leaned slightly closer to adjust my chair, and the faint brush of his hand against my shoulder sent an unwanted shiver down my spine. The silence between us was suffocating.
I forced a bitter smile, determined to say something before the weight of it swallowed me whole. "If you brought me here because you're afraid I'll tell your fiancée what happened," I said, my tone sharp, "you don't need to worry. I am not that kind of woman. You don't have to treat me to a fancy dinner to buy my silence. You could have told me that at my house."
His expression didn't change at first. He just stood there, studying me with that same detached calm that always drove me mad. Then, slowly, something in his face shifted. His eyes darkened, his jaw tensed, and for a heartbeat, I thought I'd gone too far.
And then he laughed.
It wasn't the kind of laugh I expected from him. It wasn't cold or cruel. It was low, deep, almost genuine. The sound rolling through the quiet restaurant like it didn't belong to the same man who had spent years keeping his emotions locked away.
I froze, completely thrown off. It was the first time I had ever heard him laugh like that. Not in the office, not in meetings, not anywhere. He looked so human.
The sight of it, the sound of it, made something inside me twist painfully.
"What's so funny?" I demanded, my voice tight, even as heat crept up my neck.
He tilted his head slightly, his lips still curved into that infuriating smile. "You," he said quietly, as if the word alone explained everything.
My heart thudded faster. "Me?"
He leaned back in his chair, eyes locked on mine, his amusement slowly fading into something darker and heavier. "You think I brought you here to silence you," he said. "You think that's all this is about."
"Isn't it?" I shot back, refusing to look away. "You've made it very clear what I mean to you, Mr. Blackwell. You don't have to waste your time pretending otherwise."
His smile vanished completely. "Then you read me wrong, sweetheart. I don't pretend."
The way he said that endearment made my stomach flip, and I could feel the blush creeping up my face.
For a moment, I forgot to breathe. The air between us felt charged, like something was about to break. His gaze burned through me, stripping away every wall I had tried to rebuild.
I wanted to look away, but I couldn't, because beneath his anger and the tension between us, I saw something raw, unspoken, something that terrified me more than all his coldness combined.
And even though I told myself I hated him, my heart betrayed me again. It raced, reckless and desperate, as if it still remembered what it felt like to be touched by him.