I sit in the back seat of Rafael's sleek black SUV, my fingers fidgeting nervously with the delicate rings adorning my hands. The plush leather seats and tinted windows create an air of luxury and secrecy, a fitting backdrop for the important lunch meeting with the enigmatic Mr. Zhan.

A mix of anticipation and unease washes over me as I glance down at my carefully chosen ensemble. The off-shoulder white top hugs my curves, its long sleeves and twisted front adding a touch of sophistication to the alluring silhouette. The form-fitting brown skirt falls gracefully to my ankles, a daring slit offering a tantalizing glimpse of my leg with each subtle movement. My cream-colored heels, adorned with glistening pearl embellishments, catch the soft light filtering through the car windows while the matching handbag rests beside me.

I adjust one of the delicate gold earrings dangling from my ears, my mind drifting to the unexpected revelation about the origin of my clothing. Miguel's cousin, a woman I've never met but has been carefully curating my wardrobe.

Rafael sits beside me, his attention focused on his phone as he seamlessly switches between Spanish and English, conducting business with a cool efficiency that both intimidates and thrills me. There's no doubt in my mind that the man is a criminal, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't find him even more attractive like this—focused, in control, with his Tom Ford suit clinging to his body in all the right ways. I know it's that brand because I helped him slip back into the jacket after he fucked me in his office before we left.

His cum still slicks the inside of my thighs, and he didn't allow me to clean up, insisting I meet Mr. Zhan with the reminder of him between my legs. I don't fully understand his reasoning, but a twisted part of me loves it. I love what it means, the silent claim he's marking on me. Even though I haven't explicitly said I'm his, my body's already betrayed me, and I'm okay with that. My soul and heart, though—they're still mine. And I'm not worried about them belonging to him anytime soon, especially my heart.

My mind drifts to last night as we returned home with Caroline while I turn away from Rafael and gaze out the window. Julio, like his boss, also senses something suspicious about her arrival, and to some extent, I agree with them. Rafael's office is situated on the top floor of his club, and she would have had to pass security before reaching his office. However, I can't shake the feeling that even if her motives might be questionable, she has still endured a great deal of suffering, and she might not be the one who wants to harm Rafael.

The others were welcoming, with Pedro cooking a delicious meal for her after she showered, and I provided her with some of my clothes for the night. Miguel and Danny also made efforts to ensure her comfort, but she barely warmed up to them, which I believe is a result of the trauma she has faced. The bruises and scars I glimpsed yesterday serve as a haunting reminder of her ordeal, and I can't even begin to fathom the depths of her pain. It brought back vivid memories of the time when Thomas found Melina and me, and I slipped into a coma due to the torture I endured. Sometimes, it feels as though it's been a year or more since I emerged from that coma rather than just a month ago. So much has transpired since then, and I can't help but wonder what the future holds.

"Francesca," a familiar voice calls out, and I turn to my right to see Rafael with his hand outstretched, the car door open. We must have arrived at our destination.

"Sorry," I apologize, taking his hand and gracefully stepping out of the vehicle. As I move, I become acutely aware of the sticky sensation of his cum between my legs, and a deep blush creeps up to my cheeks, recalling the way he took me in his office earlier. Now that we're out in public, a twinge of regret nags at me, wondering if I should have insisted on cleaning up before leaving.

The warmth of the sun caresses my skin as we make our way towards the entrance of the upscale restaurant. The building's sleek, modern architecture exudes an air of sophistication with its gleaming glass façade and well-manicured landscaping. The gentle breeze carries the aroma of exquisite cuisine, hinting at the gastronomic delights that await us inside.

The restaurant's sophisticated ambiance envelops us as we step inside, a masterful blend of modern luxury and inviting warmth. My eyes are immediately drawn to the dramatic ceiling, where geometric wooden panels hang at various angles, creating an artistic interplay of light and shadow. The rich, dark wood tones are softened by the warm glow of recessed lighting, imbuing the spacious room with an intimate atmosphere.

To our right, a wall of intricate metalwork screens partially obscures what appears to be private dining areas, adding an air of mystery and exclusivity. The main dining area stretches out before us, a harmonious mix of comfortable armchairs and sleek dining tables. The color palette is muted and elegant, with soft greys, creams, and deep browns dominating the space, creating a soothing and refined environment.

Despite my carefully chosen outfit, I can't help but feel a twinge of self-consciousness in such an upscale setting. My fingers instinctively move to smooth down my white off-shoulder top, seeking reassurance in the luxurious fabric. I'm grateful for the long brown skirt that suddenly feels appropriately formal, its graceful lines echoing the sophistication surrounding us. As we make our way to our table, the pearl embellishments on my cream heels catch the light, and I silently thank myself for selecting accessories that seamlessly blend with the restaurant's luxurious ambiance.

Rafael's hand finds its place on the small of my back, and he guides me forward. As we reach our table, he demonstrates his chivalry by pulling out a chair for me. I express my gratitude and settle into my seat, my eyes wandering across the restaurant, taking in the elegant details and the well-heeled patrons.

A waiter swiftly approaches our table. "Good day, sir, ma'am. What would you like today?" he inquires in Spanish, his words flowing effortlessly. Thanks to the dedicated efforts of Danny and Miguel, who took it upon themselves to teach me Spanish, I find myself able to comprehend his question.

Rafael replies in the same language. Although my understanding hasn't quite reached his level, I suspect he is placing an order for our food and wine while we await Mr. Zhan's arrival. The anticipation of the upcoming meeting mingles with the allure of the restaurant, creating an electric undercurrent in the air.

As I sit there, I can't shake the feeling of someone's gaze upon me, a prickling sensation on the back of my neck. I discreetly scan the restaurant, searching for the source of the unseen attention, but no one seems to be openly staring in my direction. Brushing off the peculiar feeling, I reach for my phone, seeking a momentary distraction from the weight of the impending conversation.

Every time I hold my phone, I find myself resisting the urge to message my sister, a daily struggle that I never anticipated would be so torturous. The temptation gnaws at me, but I know I must maintain my silence. With a heavy heart, I lock my phone and place it on the table, silently praying for the swift arrival of our wine, hoping that the crimson liquid will provide a temporary respite from the emotional turmoil churning within me.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The bustling restaurant fades into the background as an uncomfortable silence settles over our table. Minutes tick by, feeling like hours. I fidget with my napkin, sneaking glances at Rafael's stoic profile. A realization hits me like a punch to the gut: the only time we truly spend together is when we are fucking. Our "relationship," if you can call it that, is built on passion and power, not conversation. The thought makes my chest tighten.

Before I can stop myself, words tumble out. "Tell me about yourself," I say, forcing a smile to hide my nerves. "There's no reason to sit in silence while we wait."

Rafael freezes, his hand hovering over his wine glass. His eyebrow arches, and I brace myself for dismissal. Instead, a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth. "What would you like to know, pequeña rebelde?"

His smirk tells me he finds my boldness amusing. A wave of relief washes over me – amusement is far better than insult or provocation. I lean back, heart racing. "Everything," I breathe, hardly daring to hope.

His green eyes search mine. "Are you sure you want to know everything about me?" The question hangs heavy in the air.

"Yes," I answer, surprised by the strength in my own voice.

Rafael's smirk deepens. "Alright, but first – you tell me why you're afraid of the dark."

The question hits me like a bucket of ice water. I freeze, my whole body going rigid in my chair. The bustling restaurant seems to dim around the edges as my focus narrows to Rafael's intense gaze.

I wasn't expecting this. Not here, not now. My tongue feels like lead in my mouth as I struggle to keep my expression neutral. Seconds tick by, feeling like hours, as the full weight of his question sinks in.

Slowly, almost insidiously, memories begin to circle at the edge of my consciousness. My mind whirls, thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm as I desperately fight against the tide threatening to drag me under.

Inside, I'm spiraling. My breath catches in my throat as I frantically try to avoid the dark corners where my deepest fears lurk. But the more I resist, the stronger the pull becomes, and suddenly, I can't remember how to form words.

My fingers grip the edge of the table, a futile attempt to anchor myself to the present. But the past looms large, shadows creeping in despite the warm glow of the restaurant lights.

"Francesca, look at me," Rafael says, his voice cutting through the fog of my panic. His fingers intertwine with mine, the warmth of his touch barely registering. I was so lost in my head that I didn't even feel him take my hand.

I release a shaky breath, forcing myself to meet his gaze. What I see there catches me off guard. Behind the usual intensity, there's something else - a silent plea. He wants me to trust him, to let him in. The realization hits me like a physical blow. Part of me yearns to open up, to finally share the burden I've carried alone for so long. But another part, the scared little girl who still lives inside me, wants to run and hide.

Swallowing hard, I clear my throat. My voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. "My father is the reason." The words hang in the air between us, heavy with unspoken pain. My eyes immediately drop to my lap, unable to bear the weight of his gaze.

I feel Rafael's hand on my chin, gently but firmly lifting it until our eyes lock again. The tenderness of the gesture contrasts sharply with the barely contained anger I see flashing in his eyes.

"Why is your father the reason you're afraid of the dark, Francesca?" he asks. There's an edge to his voice now, a hint of fury simmering just beneath the surface. But I can tell it's not directed at me.

I open my mouth, but the words catch in my throat. My heart races, pounding so hard I'm sure he must be able to hear it. The prospect of finally telling someone, of giving voice to the horrors I experienced as a child, is both terrifying and strangely liberating.

Even Melina doesn't know what I'm about to reveal. I've spent years building walls around this secret, doing everything in my power to protect her from the full extent of our father's cruelty. She was there for the beatings, witness to the bruises and broken bones, but what happened in the darkness... that was my burden alone.

A wave of relief washes over me, tinged with guilt, as I remember how grateful I've always been that he never turned his nighttime attention to her. But that relief is quickly overshadowed by the weight of my own experiences.

Tears fill my eyes, blurring my surroundings. The memories come flooding back, as vivid and terrifying as they were all those years ago. The sound of footsteps in the hallway, the creak of a door opening, the suffocating darkness that hid unspeakable horrors. I can almost feel the ghost of his touch, and it makes my skin crawl.

Despite the years that have passed, the pain hasn't dulled. It's a constant ache, a wound that never fully heals. Sometimes, I think time has lessened its impact, but in moments like this, when I'm forced to confront it head-on, I realize it still hurts as much as it did then. The scared little girl I once was still lives inside me, her fear and pain as raw and real as ever.

I blink, coming back to the present as I feel Rafael's thumb gently wiping away tears I didn't realize I'd shed. His touch is surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the darkness I see swirling in his eyes.

"Did he pay?" he asks, his voice rough and low, like gravel underfoot.

"Yes," I whisper. "I sent him to prison."

"Did he die there?" The question is blunt, almost hopeful.

I shake my head slowly. "No. He should be out now if my calculations are right."

Rafael's hands freeze on my cheeks. Something sinister, almost predatory, flashes across his face. "He's out," he repeats, a humorless grin stretching his lips. "I guess God still loves me."

He leans back, reaching for his phone. The sudden shift in his demeanor leaves me feeling adrift.

"What do you mean?" I ask, confusion momentarily overshadowing my lingering fear.

"Nothing, pequeña rebelde," he replies dismissively, pocketing his phone as our food arrives.

I want to press further, but something in his tone tells me it would be futile. He would have elaborated if he wanted me to know. As I pick up my fork, ready to distract myself with food, a thought strikes me. I remember the question that started this whole emotional journey - my request to know more about him. The irony isn't lost on me that in trying to learn about Rafael, I've ended up revealing so much of myself instead.