Possessing Farrah ✔️

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨 (II)

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆☽Ⓛ❈Ⓒ☾⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

Farrah's POV.

I turn to look at Mr Diomiro Ferrante. I'm in six inch heels, making him about four inches taller than me. I'd hate to see how much taller than me he is when I haven't got them on. He is typically Italian, his complexion even darker than mine, but atypically attractive. The first thing I notice is the black bar pierced through his left eyebrow. The next is the stream of tattoos covering his whole neck.

His hair, coal-black and shiny with health, is combed back from his face and held in place with some kind of hair product. His eyebrows are level and low above eyes the colour of night, similar to his hair colour. His eyes are almond-shaped and lined with lashes that put mine to shame. There's something about his eyes that makes me shudder. They're empty of emotion, he has the perfect poker face.

His cheekbones are high and too delicate, they're out of place next to his straight nose and hard eyes. His lips, despite being pressed together in a grim line, are the colour of rosé wine and full as hell, with a cupid's bow that would shoot anyone straight in the heart. He is clean-shaven with a jawline that looks like it was carved by Michelangelo himself.

The final kicker for me is the three-piece, hand-tailored, dark charcoal suit that he is wearing. His hands are in the pockets of his trousers, his posture both tense and relaxed. He gives me the vibe of a coiled panther, ready to strike at any second.

I feel like I can't breathe under his intense stare, it's like he's taken my breath away and I can't breathe again until he gives me permission to. This man will be my teacher and trainer for five years...I don't think my heart will handle it.

He looks me up and down, his gaze cold and calculating. It's as though he is assessing me for a test, the unfathomable expression on his face makes me think that I haven't passed. He doesn't make a move to shake my hand or acknowledge me in any way. Just when I think he is going to ignore my presence, he gives me a stiff nod.

"Farrah."

He says my name and it's like I can breathe again. Air floods into my lungs and my heart rate spikes. He is so painfully handsome and hearing him say my name with his beautiful accent...it's different to my father's, he is from South Italy, for sure.

"Mr Ferrante," I reply softly.

Something flashes in his eyes. Something that is gone in an instant, far too quickly for me to identify it.

"Great! Now, that you've met, Diomiro, we need to talk," my father rushes. "Nahir, introduce Farrah to some people, I need to talk business."

My mother rolls her eyes at my father's dismissal of us but places her hand on my lower back. "Come, I'll introduce you to 'some people'," she says, mocking my father.

The rest of the party is boring. Layton and I give it two hours before we get my father's permission to leave. I don't see Mr Ferrante after he goes into my father's office. He doesn't strike me as the party type, I really can't imagine a brooding brute like him dancing. I can't even picture him laughing.

"What was your trainer like?" Layton asks when we're alone in my bedroom, I invited him to stay over.

"Scary, handsome, quiet."

Layton frowns. "That's quite a selection."

"I know. He looks like he'll be tough, though. He was hard to read. A man of few words, that's for sure."

"He can't be the only one training you, right? Hopefully, you'll have some nicer teachers, too."

"Yeah, hopefully."