Xander
The whiskey burned down my throat like a warning shot-smoky, sharp, and aged to perfection. Just like this place.
My place.
The lights of The X Club shimmered like liquid gold over polished obsidian floors. Music pulsed low and dirty beneath the chatter-an expensive hum that filled the air like smoke. Red velvet booths curved like sin along the edges. Crystal-glass chandeliers dangled from the ceiling like frozen fire. And me?
I sat in the center of it all.
Back pressed against fine Italian leather. Legs spread wide. Wrist resting lazily on the table, fingers curled around a heavy-cut glass that caught the light with every idle movement.
The world moved around me like I owned it. Because I did.
Women glided past in dresses too tight and heels too high, their perfume leaving trails of citrus and lust. Eyes lingered. Smiles sharpened. Tongues flicked against cherry-glossed lips.
They weren't subtle.
Didn't need to be.
One of them leaned just close enough for me to catch the scent of her-amber and rose-before she gave me a look that screamed take me upstairs and ruin me. Her fingers grazed the edge of my table.
I didn't move.
Couldn't.
Because I wasn't here for them.
I was here for her.
The bitch.
Sia fucking Evans.
The girl with trembling fingers and thrift-store sweaters. The girl who looks at me like I painted the stars and forgets she's just a pawn on my board.
I tipped my glass, watching the amber swirl with the ice. It clinked, soft and hollow. Kind of like her voice when she stammers my name like it means something.
Like she means something.
Seven calls this morning.
Seven.
And every single one I ignored.
She thought I was "at work," dealing with some big CEO-level catastrophe.
In reality?
I was on the top floor of her building.
In my penthouse.
Wearing nothing but a robe, sipping coffee, and watching her from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
She knows I live above her.
She just doesn't know I watched her. That I saw the way she paced like a lost child. That I stood there with a bored smirk while she waited for a text that was never coming.
It should've been pathetic.
But I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a part of me-a fucked-up, broken part-that found it... compelling.
Not enough to stop.
Just enough to notice.
She thought I was deep in thought the last time I looked at her.
That I was "processing emotions" or some poetic bullshit.
I wasn't.
I was glaring.
Loathing.
She smiled at me like I was something holy. I wanted to laugh in her face.
She believes I care.
YOU ARE READING
The Playboy's Wicked Revenge (Major editing In Progress)
RomanceAll she ever wanted was someone who can love her, understand her and respect her but destiny has something else stored. All her life she prayed for one thing which is, not to be a BURDEN on anyone, but life's not fair at all She thought its love but...
