The Villainess and Her Three Dogs

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[The male lead is still suffering in the trenches with his ex. Just wait until the real heroine shows up. This toxic villainess is going straight to prison!]

The words float in the air before my eyes, buzzing like digital gnats.

Prison?

Interesting.

Right now, the man these floating comments claim is the "Future Business Tycoon" is currently on his knees beside the bed. Hes cradling my foot like its made of glass, carefully dressing the bloody blister my heel rubbed raw today.

He looks up at me. His eyes are dark, heavy with a sickness I know too well.

Pure obsession.

Meanwhile, the neighbor next doorthe so-called "roughneck" destined to fall for the heroineis pacing the hallway shirtless. His muscles are twitching with agitation, all because hes desperate to hand me a bag of fruit.

And lets not forget the ruthless CEO villain mentioned in the text. Hes currently racking his brain, plotting ways to rip us apart just so he can slide into my bed.

Chapter 1

I noticed the floating text right after Dorian and I finished.

Im lying on my side, breath still hitching in my throat, trying to ride out the aftershocks of pleasure. The room is stifling. My skin is slick, drenched in a layer of sticky, heavy sweat.

Dorians arms are locked around me. His face is buried in the crook of my neck, inhaling deep.

I blink. The neon sentences are still there.

I dig my nails into my thigh. Hard. The sharp, grounding sting confirms it. Im not hallucinating. This is real.

I sit up, my voice raspy. "I need a shower. Its too hot."

Dorian moves instantly. He gets up, grabs a change of clothes for me, and takes my hand. He walks me to the communal bathroom at the end of the hall.

He stands outside the door like a sentinel. Guarding his territory.

We live in a sketchy complex where you keep your head down. The room is a boxjust a bed and a wardrobe. No bathroom, no kitchen.

My dad died when I was five. Mom followed him when I was ten. By seventeen, my grandmathe last tether I hadwas gone too.

My family tree is a dead end. Just me.

I scraped together tuition by working every shift I could find. Living in a dump like this after graduation? Its not a surprise. Its just Tuesday.

The surprise is that Im not alone.

Ive known Dorian since high school. Back then, he was the definition of Old Money.

Private drivers. Three catered meals a day, delivered by staff. Draped in designer labels from his perfectly styled hair to his Italian loafers. He radiated a soft, expensive kind of nobility.

Kind, generous, gentle. The type of guy who got along with everyone because he never had a reason not to.

Compared to me, he was born in the sunlight. I was born in the dirt.

We weren't the same species. Even in the same class, we barely spoke.

Occasionally, Id sell things at schoolhustling to make rent. Hed buy random junk he didn't need just to be polite.

I traded my youth for survival. Skipping class, leaving early, working late.

My grades were a result of grinding my teeth and forcing information into my brain. Im not gifted. I just refused to starve. I managed to get into a decent college.

And then, the cycle of work restarted.

Dorian and I went to different universities in the same city.

The first time we really talked was at the boba shop where I worked. I was shaking tea behind the counter. He walked in to order.

He became a regular.

Eventually, he took my cracked, second-hand phone and typed in his number. We started talking. Constantly.

One day, face flushing a deep crimson, he confessed.

I said yes.

Chapter 2

Dorian clings to me like static electricity.

Its probably the side effect of being coddled since birth. He carries this soft, terrifying innocence in his bones. When were together, he spins these wild, impossible fantasies.

"Let's get married the second we graduate," hed say.

I knew from the moment I let him in that we were a dead end.

The chasm between us is too wide to bridge.

I didn't say yes to him because I was in love. I said yes because my life has been a heavy, suffocating shade of grey. I had never tasted his kind of lifestyle.

I just wanted to see what it felt like to jam a stranger into the hollow, lonely parts of my existence. A science experiment.

The script for Dorians life was written before he was born.

Graduate. Walk into the executive suite of the family empire. Even if he was incompetent, the road was paved with gold. He could coast on generational wealth until he died.

But he isn't incompetent. Hes brilliant.

Which makes his death wish even more baffling.

He insisted on introducing me to his parents. He demanded a wedding.

He triggered the first nuclear war of his twenty-something years. His parentspeople who had never raised a voice at their golden boyactually struck him. They tried to beat the idea of us out of him.

Watching the fallout, I realized how dangerously naive his entire family is.

Even if Dorian wasn't fully committed to me before, the second they drew blood, they sealed his fate. They gave him a villain to fight.

They raised him too pure. They sent him into this filthy world believing that love is the only currency that matters.

So now, he ignores the family fortune. He turns his back on the empire to rot in a remote, run-down rental with me, convinced hes the noble hero of a tragic romance.

Chapter 3

[The stream just started and its been censored four times? The Male Lead and his ex are at it like rabbits.]

[Theyre broke. Screwing is the only free entertainment left.]

[Keep going like this and they wont even be able to afford condoms.]

[I came here for the main couple, but why am I blushing every time the Male Lead and his ex share a frame? The tension is insane.]

[Help. The novel didnt say they were this sticky. When does the real heroine show up?]

I scrub the slick, heavy sweat from my skin.

My eyes lock onto the bizarre, glowing sentences floating in the air. I force my brain to filter out the noise and extract the data.

According to the text, this world is a romance novel.

And I am not the protagonist.

I am the toxic, gold-digging villainess. Vain. Incompetent. Destined to self-destruct.

The main story hasn't even started yet.

The timeline suggests the real plot kicks off in two or three years. In that version of the future, my failed startup bankrupts us. I break Dorians heart. We split.

He returns to his ivory tower, inherits the family empire, and enters a strategic marriage with the returning Heroine.

First comes marriage, then comes love.

I am nothing but a plot device. The catalyst that forces him to lock his heart away so the Heroine can eventually pry it open. I exist to push their romance forward.

My finale? A prison cell.

I couldn't care less about how Dorian meets his future wife. I don't care about the supporting cast or the villains.

I care about the trajectory.

The floating text mentioned a business empire.

Right now, I have zero capital. No money. No connections. My startup ideas are just blueprints in my head.

But these spoilers? They are market research from the future.

I towel off, drying my damp body, and push open the bathroom door.

Steam rolls out into the hallway.

Two massive figures are standing there.

One is Dorian.

The other is the neighbor from next door. Colt.

He is shirtless. Wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung basketball shorts.

His physique is aggressive. Ripped muscle definition, bronze skin, a towering height that sucks the oxygen out of the narrow corridor. He radiates a heavy, dangerous pressure.

Colt is holding a plastic bucket. The moment he sees me, he steps forward.

He brushes past me.

His shoulder grazes mine. The heat coming off him is intense, like standing next to a furnace. He moves with a rough, impatient urgency.

Dorian reacts instantly.

He yanks me back. His brows furrow into a sharp V.

He grabs a towel and starts scrubbing the spot on my arm where Colt touched me.

Hard.

Like hes trying to erase a stain.

Dorian is a germaphobe. He keeps our tiny, suffocating room surgically clean.

Back when he was a young master, he carried sanitized wipes and handkerchiefs everywhere. Gifts were disinfected before he touched them.

Since following me into the trenches, that neurosis has faded. It had to. If he didn't adapt, the summer heat and the grime of this place would have forced him to live inside the shower.

But the instinct is still there.

A prickle of unease hits the back of my neck.

I didn't hear the bathroom door latch shut.

My body reacts before my brain does. I turn around.

The door is cracked open.

Through the sliver of darkness, a pair of eyes is staring right at me.

Unblinking. Predatory.

Like a beast hiding in the brush, waiting to strike.

Chapter 4

I thought it was just a moment. A meaningless hallway crossing.

The floating comments disagreed. They were losing their minds.

[Holy s**t, is that the Ride-or-Die Second Lead?]

[This novel world is tiny. The hero, the villain, and the backup all lived in the same rat hole before the plot started?]

[Wait, so before the Male Lead inherits the empire and the Second Lead has his grass-to-grace arc, this was a slum romance?]

[Did you see that size difference when he brushed past her? The contrast in skin tone? Im weak.]

[That body. That face. And the Villainess didn't even look at him? What a waste of prime beef.]

[That sandwich moment between the two guys I'm sweating.]

I didn't expect a random stranger to be a key player.

According to the spoilers, Colt is the Second Male Lead. The "Backup Plan."

Years from now, when hes struggling to launch his own business, the Heroine will save him. Hell fall hopelessly in love with her, pining after her even after she marries Dorian.

Based on the chat logs, Colt starts his business in the next two years.

Right now? He drives big rigs. Long-haul trucking.

I know that life. My dad died in a cab just like the one Colt probably drives. It leaves an impression.

I sit on the edge of the mattress, head bowed.

Dorian is kneeling at my feet.

He peels the backing off a bandage, applying it to my heel with the precision of a surgeon. Then, his thumbs dig into my arch, working out the knots.

My feet are destroyed. The corporate world demands stilettos, and Im running around all day. Blisters are just part of the uniform.

If I had a choice, Id live in sneakers.

Dorians hands are strong. Rhythmic. He used to be clumsy at this, but now? Hes better than a professional.

Hes unemployed.

Thats my fault. Or rather, the fault of his rebellion.

When he ran away with me, his family didn't just cut off the trust fund. They blacklisted him. His Ivy League resume is radioactive in this town. No one will hire the exiled prince.

At first, he tried working service jobs. Waiting tables. Hauling boxes. Breaking his back for minimum wage.

But I noticed the shift immediately.

My quality of life tanked.

The gourmet breakfasts disappeared. The figure waiting for me with an umbrella outside my office building when it rained? Gone. Dinner wasn't ready when I walked through the door. The apartment lost its order.

He was selling his time for pennies, and I was paying the price in comfort.

That night, I ran the numbers.

My salary isn't huge. But if I cut corners, I can cover rent, food, and still funnel cash into my secret startup fund.

I don't need his minimum wage. I need his submission. I need him here.

So I made him quit. I framed it as a sacrifice. I wrapped the leash in velvet.

"Your job is stealing you from me," I whispered, running my fingers through his sweat-damp hair. "We barely see each other as it is. I want your cooking, Dorian. I want our home to feel like a sanctuary. But that takes time. That takes energy."

I looked him in the eye, making my expression soft. Vulnerable.

"Dorian, if I could, I would be the one to stay home. Id take care of you. But my boss promised a raise next month. We can move out of here soon. We're both fighting for our future. Just in different lanes."

He looked at me like I was a saint. Eyes wet, lips trembling. He kissed me like he was praying at an altar.

The next day, he quit his job.

And dinner that night was spectacular.

Chapter 5

I dont feel guilty. Not even a little.

No one knows better than I do that mindless, grinding manual labor doesn't build character. It erodes the soul. It makes you question your own worth until there's nothing left but exhaustion.

Especially for a pampered prince like him.

He could last a month. Maybe two. But three? Four?

He would break.

Eventually, hed wake up. Hed realize that air conditioning and silk sheets feel a hell of a lot better than suffering for love.

I don't know when that epiphany will hit him. But until I crawl out of this hellhole, he isn't going anywhere.

He has to stay. He is my shield. My barrier against the wandering hands and filthy stares of the men in this neighborhood.

Once I win? Then he can choose.

He can stay in my cage as my canary, or he can spread his wings and fly.

---

On his day off, Dorian goes to the market.

Im lying on the bare mattress, face pressed directly against the fan. The room is an oven, baking me alive.

A knock sounds at the door. Heavy. Muffled.

I groan and sit up, grabbing one of Dorians t-shirts. Its oversized, swallowing my frame and covering just enough to be decent.

Its too hot to care. If I didn't have to answer the door, Id be walking around stark naked.

I swing the door open.

The man standing there is a wall. Massive. Air-tight. Blocking out the hallway light.

"What do you want?"

Colts presence is aggressive. Instinctively, I slide my bare foot behind the door, wedging it as a doorstop just in case he tries to force his way in.

He doesn't.

He just extends a hand.

"You left this in the bathroom."

Resting in his calloused, rough palm is a hair tie. The one Dorian bought me.

I reach out. My fingerscool from the fanbrush against the furnace heat of his palm.

The contact lasts a millisecond too long.

I snatch the tie back. "Thanks. Must have dropped it."

"Mmh."

There is no reason for him to stay.

He turns to leave.

"Hey."

He stops.

I lean against the doorframe, sliding the band onto my wrist.

"You're doing the interstate runs lately, right? I heard produce is cheaper direct from the growers. Could you bring some back for me?"

I know what I look like.

Wearing my boyfriends shirt. Bare legs. Bare feet. Sweat making the fabric cling in all the wrong places.

I am standing here, bold as hell, asking another man for favors while looking like this.

Colt turns back slowly. His eyes snap up to mine.

Usually, he avoids my gaze. Like looking at me directly would expose some dirty secret hes hiding in his chest.

But not today.

Its like my request gave him permission. A green light.

He swallows hard. His Adam's apple bobs. His eyes dart away, then back to me, nervous energy radiating off him.

"Yeah." His voice is a gravelly rumble. "I can do that."

I smile. "Thanks."

I close the door.

Through the narrowing crack, just before the latch clicks, I see it.

His face is burning. A deep, dark flush rising up his neck, visible even under that tan skin.

Chapter 6

I peel the shirt off and flop back onto the bare mattress. I position myself directly in front of the fan, letting the air hit my damp skin while I wait for my personal chef to return.

The floating comments are scrolling so fast they blur. Its a riot.

[I thought this was a clean romance? Why is it suddenly spicy?]

[Are we even sure the Male Lead ends up with the Heroine? He and the villainess have more chemistry in one frame than most couples have in a lifetime.]

[Her wearing his shirt to talk to the other guy? That is a power move.]

[Bare legs. Bare feet. Leaning against the door, covered in sweat, breathing heavy I am hyperventilating. The tension is illegal.]

[She should have just invited him in.]

[Mommy, please. Just take a bite of the Second Lead before the plot starts.]

[Am I the only one who thinks she left that hair tie on purpose?]

I ignore the thirsty chaos and archive the useful data about the future.

The next day, Dorian walks in carrying three massive bags of fruit.

"Did someone deliver these to the wrong address?"

I stare at the bags.

Watermelons. Apples. Peaches. Grapes.

It looks like someone panic-bought the entire produce aisle because they had no idea what I liked, so they just bought everything.

This must have cost a fortune.

I stay silent for a few seconds. Dorian stares at me the entire time.

His mouth says "wrong address," but his hands are already dragging the bags inside. He knows exactly who they are for.

"I asked the neighbor to grab some," I say, keeping my voice bored. "He drives North. Fruit is cheaper up there. I didn't expect him to buy out the store."

"We should return some of it."

Dorian sits down on the floor. He starts pulling the fruit out, one by one. He handles each apple like he is cataloging evidence of a crime.

"He came over yesterday? When I was at the market?"

I lie back on the bed, crossing my legs. "Mmh."

He always does this.

Even when he isn't here, he can pinpoint exactly when another man enters my orbit. In college, he used that sharp brain for exams. Now? He uses it to track every person, object, or event that touches me.

He writes everything down.

He has a notebook. His handwriting is elegant, academic. He logs the time I leave, the route I walk, the places I stop, the people I speak to. He catalogs my sensitive spots.

Sometimes, I rest my chin on his shoulder and watch him balance our ledger.

Income. Expenses. Savings.

Anything leftover goes to condoms.

I know he follows me to work in the mornings. He walks a block behind, silent, executing a surveillance mission he thinks is covert.

He thinks I don't know.

But I found the other notebook. The one he hides.

I read it until the spine cracked.

That one is filled with ink-black jealousy. He pours his hatred for every man who looks at me onto those pages.

He has no safety net. He thinks that without the "Prince of the Empire" title, he is nothing. He thinks he can't give me the life I deserve.

So he holds on tight. Terrified that if he lets go for even a second, Ill realize hes worthless.

Chapter 7

Dorian doesn't actually mind playing house husband.

He rejects the traditional "man provides, woman nurtures" dynamic. In fact, he thrives on being kept. To him, spending my money is a love language. It proves he belongs to me.

But that doesn't stop the insecurity from eating him alive.

He knows exactly who I am. He sees the ambition I wear like armor. He knows Im climbing a mountain, and the higher I go, the more wolves Ill meet.

His biggest fear isn't poverty. Its obsolescence.

Hes terrified that one day, Ill get bored of this cramped life. Hes terrified that Ill realize I don't need him anymore.

He used to comfort himself with the idea that I chose him for his background. That his pedigree was his insurance policy.

But now? Hes been exiled.

He has no leverage. No chips left to bet.

He can be the perfect, obedient puppy, and I could still leave him on the side of the road.

Dorians eyes are pitch black.

He unpacks the three bags of fruit, item by item.

Every piece is flawless. Plump. Vibrant.

Its obvious Colt hand-picked each one. Its not just groceries; its a flex. A signal.

Dorian picks up a Gala apple. His grip tightens. His knuckles turn white. His fingers dig into the red skin until the flesh bruises and juice weeps out.

That shameless, home-wrecking piece of trash.

Dorian keeps digging through the bags, desperate to find a bruise, a worm, anything to justify his jealousy. He finds nothing but perfection.

So he pivots to psychological warfare.

"He doesn't know you hate apples?"

I answer without looking up. "We've met twice. We aren't close."

Its a simple fact.

But Dorians brain is a distortion machine. He doesn't hear a fact. He hears a defense.

We aren't close yet.

The mask of the gentle, golden retriever slips. His expression goes cold.

"Throw them back at him."

Throw.

The word carries a violent edge. He is marking his territory.

Dorian was raised in silk, but that doesn't mean he lacks teeth. When another alpha marks his tree, he snaps.

I push myself up from the mattress and crawl toward him. I press my chest against his back.

"Are you mad?"

Dorian is wearing a ribbed white tank and boxers. His skin is radiating heat, burning like a furnace, but he won't take the shirt off.

Even in this suffocating heat, he clings to a shred of modesty.

Decades of being trained to wear a three-piece suit in July don't just vanish. Hes a gentleman.

But only outside the sheets.

In bed? The gentleman dies.

Like right now.

He knows Im trying to pacify him. He turns his head.

0.01 seconds.

Thats how long he hesitates before his mouth crashes onto mine.

The three bags of perfectly arranged fruit go flying.

Apples roll across the floor.

He kisses me like hes trying to purge the anger and the lust in a single breath.

"Can I do this?" he growls against my throat. "Can I take you like this? Again?"

The words are polite. The questions of a well-bred heir.

His hands are not.

His grip is bruising. Possessive. Reclaiming what he thinks is slipping away.

Thud.

My back hits the wall.

I bite down hard on my lower lip, trapping a moan in my throat. The walls here are paper-thin. If we make a sound, the entire buildingincluding the man next doorwill know exactly what were doing.

We are a legitimate couple. But every time we touch, it feels like an illicit affair. Frantic. Hushed. Desperate.

---

Minutes later.

The air is heavy with musk and sweat.

Dorian reaches toward the nightstand. The crinkle of a foil wrapper cuts through the silence.

I blink, confused. "Another one?"

He tears it open with his teeth. He smiles.

The darkness in his eyes has cleared, replaced by a satisfied, glassy clarity. The demon has been fed.

"I had a surplus in the budget this month," he whispers, leaning over me. "I spent it all on condoms."

I grab a handful of his damp hair and yank.

Unbelievable.

Who else budgets their surplus cash just to ensure they can keep me in bed?

Chapter 8

Dorian marches over to the neighbors unit, carrying the rejected bags of fruit. He raps on the door.

Colt yanks it open.

He looks wrecked. Eyelids heavy, posture loose, a cloud of stale cigarette smoke clinging to him. He looks like a man who hadnt slept.

"What?"

Dorian plasters on a fake, boardroom-ready smile. He holds the bags out like a peace offering that was actually a declaration of war.

"Leighton said you bought way too much. Were on a tight budget, so we cant accept all this. Im returning some, and heres the cash for the rest."

Colt doesn't move. He doesn't even look at the cash.

"Tell her to bring it herself."

Dorians smile fractures. The politeness evaporates, leaving something icy underneath.

"Shes busy. She doesn't have time for this. Im her boyfriend. Dealing with this is my job."

Colt doesn't blink. He just repeats the words, slower this time. Heavier.

"Tell. Her. To. Come."

He doesn't wait for a rebuttal. He slams the door in Dorians face.

Inside, Colt walks over to the window and shoves it open, trying to air out the room.

The walls here are basically cardboard.

He hears everything.

Every gasp. Every creak of the bedframe. Every whimper.

---

According to Dorian, he returned the fruit and paid for what we kept.

According to the floating neon text, he did neither.

[Lmao, the fruit is in the dumpster.]

[Dorian is so petty, I love it.]

I check his journal when hes not looking. Sure enough, the latest entry is a manifesto of resentment against "the neighbor." Hes already calculating the cost of breaking our lease to move.

I wait until Dorian leaves for the afternoon.

I can't let Colt spend a fortune on me for nothing. Its bad business.

I knock on 4B.

Colt opens the door.

"Hey. How much for the fruit? Im paying you back."

He doesn't answer immediately. He steps back, widening the gap. "Come in."

Its a transaction. It should take ten seconds in the hallway. But I walk in anyway.

His room isn't huge, but in this building, its a penthouse.

Its the most expensive unit. Private bathroom. Balcony. And most importantlya window unit AC blasting full force.

The moment I step across the threshold, the brutal summer heat vanishes, replaced by crisp, artificial chill. I haven't felt air this cold in months.

"Sit," he says, gesturing vaguely at the bed.

I sit.

The mattress dips under my weight. Immediately, Im enveloped in his scent. Its thick. Inescapable. A mix of cold air, tobacco, and aggressive masculinity. It wraps around me like a second skin.

Im wearing a flimsy tank top and shorts. Im perched on the edge of his sheets.

Colt closes the door. When he turns around, he freezes.

His eyes sweep over me. My bare legs against his dark quilt. My posture relaxed in his private space.

He stops walking.

I look up at him and smile. I make sure to tilt my head so he catches the flash of color on my wrist.

Im wearing the hair tie he returned.

Colt clears his throat and mutters a number. Its ridiculously low. The fruit alone would have cost more than that.

I pretend not to notice. I hand him the cash.

"By the way, Colt, are you driving tomorrow?"

I heard another neighbor call him that once. I figure its safe to use.

"What did you call me?"

The question shoots out of him. Sharp.

I blink, feigning confusion. "Colt? Can I not call you that? I heard someone else say it."

"You can."

The corner of his mouth twitches. A dark, satisfied smirk ghosts across his face.

"Need me to bring you something?"

Hes already slipping into the role. Hes drowning in the fantasy, completely forgetting the small detail that I have a boyfriend.

Chapter 9

I give him his mission.

"Hit the Fashion District downtown. I need samples. Womens fashion."

Online shopping is in its infancy, a chaotic frontier. But I see the wave coming. E-commerce is the future, and I plan to surf it all the way to the bank.

My mother was a designer before she died. I grew up surrounded by sketches and fabric swatches. I have her eye. I know what sells.

Colt doesn't hesitate. "Sizes?"

His voice is flat, professional. But his eyes glaze over.

He isn't thinking about inventory. He is replaying the memory of me standing in his doorway, drowning in Dorians oversized shirt.

I make small talk for another minute, then stand up. "I have to go."

Dorians internal clock is precise. If Im not back soon, hell start spiraling.

I turn to the door.

"Hey."

Colts voice stops me. He kicks a plastic bag near his dresser.

"Take the fruit."

I pause. "I didn't order that."

"I know," he says, the words rough. "I bought it myself."

I open my mouth to refuse.

He cuts me off.

"If you don't take it, Im leaving it on your doorstep in ten minutes."

I freeze.

On the doorstep.

Right when Dorian is due home.

I look up at him.

Colt is staring right at me. He doesn't blink. He doesn't flinch.

Before, he couldn't even hold my gaze without turning red. Now? Hes locking eyes with me, challenging me.

Its a message.

You opened the door, Leighton. You invited the wolf in. Now deal with the teeth.

He isn't going to let go.

But he forgot one thing.

I opened the door. I gave the permission. That means I hold the leash.

"No."

I keep my voice steady. Cool.

"You've done enough, Colt. I don't take handouts without a reason."

The light in his eyes dies instantly. His mouth flattens into a hard line. The air in the room drops ten degrees. The calm before the hurricane.

I take a step forward.

I walk right into his personal space, tilting my head back to look him in the eye.

"You aren't going to leave anything at my door," I say softly. "I hate people who make decisions for me."

I let the threat hang in the cold air between us.

"If you pull a stunt like that, Colt, Ill find someone else to run my errands."

Colt looks down at me.

Im standing inches from him, but my words are shoving him miles away.

His chest falls.

He gets it.

In this silent power struggle, with the other man not even in the room, he lost. I chose the "useless" boyfriend. I protected the dead weight instead of him.

Even though he was ready to pry me away, I just slammed the wall back up.

My warning hit the mark. It stings.

Greed is a nasty thing.

At first, he was just happy to be in my orbit. A stolen glance, an accidental touchit was enough to keep him awake for days, burning with feverish need.

But the moment I extended the olive branch, the moment I gave him a task, the hunger mutated.

He wants more.

He wants to invite me in. He wants to mark his territory on my doorstep. He wants to erase the man waiting for me next door.

Desire doesn't shrink. It only expands.

Chapter 10

The silence stretches. Thick. Heavy. We are waiting for the other to blink.

Colt stares into my eyes. He is searching for a crack in my armor, a sign that Im bluffing.

He finds nothing.

"Fine."

The word is a low rumble in his chest.

He takes the out. He stepped back from the ledge.

I smile. The tension in the room snaps like a rubber band.

"Thanks, Colt."

I turn to leave. Hand on the doorknob.

Then, I stop.

I reach into the plastic bag sitting on the floor. I pluck a single, fuzzy peach from the pile.

I hold it up next to my face. A silent toast. A consolation prize.

The darkness in Colts eyes vanishes instantly. His shoulders drop. The blood rushes back into his face.

He looks like a starving man who just got thrown a crumb.

---

The floating text is losing its mind again.

[Is this a masterclass in gaslighting? The Second Lead tried to mark his territory with fruit, straight up trying to promote himself to Main Boyfriend.]

[He tried to brute force his way into her life, and she just slammed the door in his face while keeping a foot in the jamb.]

[Lmao. He tried to kick the boyfriend out of the picture, and she buried him in the dirt.]

[Colt: "I want to be a homewrecker." Leighton: "Back in your kennel. Try again." Colt: "Yes, Ma'am."]

[Her game is terrifying. High risk, high reward. She punishes him, then tosses him a treat just to keep him loyal. Its the "I hurt you because I care" vibe.]

[I finally get why these men are obsessed. If she treated me like dirt, Id thank her.]

[Mommy, please. Just one kiss for Second Daddy.]

---

When Dorian walks through the door later, he looks like a funeral procession of one.

His face is a storm cloud. Heavy. Grey.

I analyze him instantly.

This isn't about Colt.

If he knew I had been in Colts room, he wouldn't look depressed. He would look terrifyingly calm. He would be smiling that perfect, porcelain smile while plotting a murder in his head. His anger only leaks out in passive-aggressive comments.

This is something else.

"What happened?"

Dorian is standing at the sink, aggressively scrubbing vegetables. The water hits the metal with a harsh hiss.

"My cousin called," he says, his voice tight. "Hes coming to visit. He knows where we live."

Oh.

Him.

Vaughn.

The narcissist. The one who looks at me like Im gum stuck to the bottom of his Italian loafers.

The first time we met, he didn't even say hello. He just looked me up and down, curled his lip, and asked, "So, are you just gunning for a payout, or is this a long-con for the inheritance?"

He doesn't act. He doesn't pretend to be polite. He hates me with his whole chest.

I suspect Dorians parents didn't come up with the "disown him" plan on their own. Vaughn was the whisper in their ear. The arsonist who lit the match.

Dorian confirmed it once. When the screaming match happened at the family estate, Vaughn was right there, pouring gasoline on the fire.

And now, that man is coming here.

To this dump.

My head starts to throb.

Chapter 11

Dorian looks at me with wet, guilty eyes.

"You know how he is," he whispers. "He has the address. Locking the door won't stop a tank. Hes already here."

I have a simpler solution: Don't open the door.

But Vaughn is three steps ahead.

I try to slam the door shut. A polished, hand-stitched Italian leather shoe jams into the gap.

"F**k!"

A sharp yelp of pain echoes from the hallway.

It sounds fake. Theatrical. But instinct makes me hesitate for a fraction of a second.

That is all the leverage he needs.

He shoulders his way inside, limping dramatically, rubbing a shin that definitely isn't injured.

The apartment is a shoebox. With just Dorian and me, the oxygen is thin. With a six-foot-plus man in a bespoke suit squeezing in? Its a claustrophobic nightmare.

Vaughn straightens up, instantly dropping the injured act.

He scans the room. His lip curls in disgust. Then, his gaze lands on me.

He steps forward. Without a word, he invades my personal space. He leans in, his head tilting, nostrils flaring slightly.

He is sniffing me.

Like a predator testing the air around new prey. Or a cat deciding if a mouse is worth playing with