💮͓̽His Mistress💮

"Te quiero más, Caramella,"

💮Raul💮

When Angel's breathing steadied, her chest rising and falling in a fragile rhythm, I slowly, carefully pulled away, easing her onto the sofa.

She curled into the cushions, but her sleep wasn't peaceful—her forehead creased with worry, her lips parted as if whispering silent fears.

My chest tightened, guilt gnawing at me. She carried the weight of the world's judgment—home-wrecker, slut—because of me, because of us.

I sighed, leaning forward, taking her hand in mine, her skin soft and warm against my calloused palm.

"I'll tell you everything soon, Angel," I mumbled, my voice low, my eyes stinging. "I'm sorry you're going through this because of me."

We'd found each other in the most unconventional way—a scandal wrapped in passion, a love that defied the rules. It wasn't ideal, but to hell with ideals. I loved her, and that was all that mattered.

I'd do whatever it took to keep her, to shield her from the pain of Catalina's accusations and the tabloids' lies.

To the world, she'd ruined a perfect marriage, but behind closed doors, she'd saved me. She'd given me the strength to stand firm on a decision I'd wrestled with for two years: ending a marriage that had been dead long before her.

I lifted her hand, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her palm.

A knock interrupted my thoughts, sharp and insistent.

Before I could respond, the door swung open, and Nikolai stood there, his dark eyes catching the intimate moment between me and a sleeping Angel.

His jaw clenched, a flicker of something—envy, disapproval?—crossing his face. I didn't care. Let him judge. He wasn't even one to judge.

I rose, leaving Angel to rest, and crossed the room to my brother, my movements deliberate, my gaze hard.

"Why are you here, Nikolai?" I asked, my voice low, edged with irritation.

He didn't answer right away, his eyes flicking to Angel, lingering too long for my liking.

"You really love her," he said, not a question but a statement, heavy with something I couldn't quite place—regret, maybe, or resentment.

I ignored the comment, sinking into my chair behind the desk, the leather creaking under my weight.

"What brings you here, Niko?" I pressed, my tone clipped, the old wound between us throbbing beneath the surface.

Nikolai took a deep breath, his broad shoulders tensing.

"I won't be attending the award show," he said, his voice steady but guarded. "Thought I'd let you know in person."

I chuckled, a low, bitter sound, shaking my head.

"Or you came to see if the rumors about Angel and me are true, so you could swoop in and ask her to be your date."

My words were calm, but there was a razor's edge to them, the memory of his.... I shut my eyes, biting back the memories.

Nikolai's jaw tightened, his dark eyes narrowing, but he didn't take the bait.

"I'm not here to fight. I just came to tell you."

The word Hermano stung, a reminder of the brother I'd once trusted, the one who'd shared my dreams, my secrets, until he'd crossed a line that shattered us.

I leaned forward, elbows on the desk, my gaze piercing.

"You've always had a knack for timing, Niko," I said, my voice cold. "Showing up when it suits you, stirring things up. What's your angle this time?"