Killer. Beauty. Queen

Chapter four: In the endless run for perfection.

Adrian Blackwood was the embodiment of tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome. Standing at a statuesque 6 feet, he had a commanding presence that turned heads wherever he went. His brown eyes were like pools of rich, warm chocolate, drawing you in with an intensity that was both captivating and comforting.

His chiseled jawline could give even the most famous Greek sculptures a run for their money. It was the kind of jawline that looked like it was carefully crafted by a team of sculptors working overtime. Every angle and contour was a work of art, accentuating his rugged yet refined appeal. Adrian's shoulders were nothing short of spartan, broad and powerful, carrying the weight of both his physical presence and the responsibilities that came with it.

" I want you right now," he whispered in Scarlett's ear as she walked out of the bathroom, still wet.

"Leave me alone, Adrian," she growled, picking her towel off its rack and wrapping it loosely around her body.

He tried to remove it but she resisted.
"Scarlett, you forget that we're married. Even though it was arranged by our parents, you are still my wife," he grunted.

She walked past him to sit at her dressing table. She picked her lotion and rubbed it into her skin.

"Let me rub that for you," Adrian insisted.

She rolled her eyes and looked at him. "I'm perfectly capable of moisturizing myself. I don't need you."

"I know you can but let me, please," he said as he gently collected the lotion from her soft hands.

He knelt down in front of her and looked into her eyes. They had transformed into a darker shade filled with sheer lust and deep desire.

Scarlett leaned forward and let her towel fall to her hips, revealing once again her luscious breasts. He kissed between them and went up to her neck, leaving even more passionate kisses as each second goes by.

"Adrian.... Adrian," her moans filled the room. "We have to stop now," she whispered.

He tilted his head to deepen the kiss. "What do you mean? We just started. Why are you such a tease?" The words rolled out of his lips like velvet.

"Your award show is today. Have you forgotten? We can't be late."

"I don't care about that. Come here," he commanded with the roar of a fearless lion.

"Well, it's important. And my dad's is going to be there. So get dressed," she retorted, wearing her bra.

He let out a heavy sigh "Okay."
He knew better than to argue with Scarlett. Once she had her mind made up, nothing, not even heaven falling on earth, could convince her otherwise.

"Scarlett, I know you still hate my guts but please, play nice for the cameras today."

She replied with a simple smirk and replied with a rhetorical question, "Don't I always?"

After this, she walked out their room and headed to their daughter, Kira's room to remind her to get ready for the show.

They were a picture perfect family and had to maintain the facade for the outside world.

        •••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The grand ballroom of White Hotel was a vision of wealth and luxury, an elegant setting for the prestigious Lawyer Awards. Chandeliers glittered like stars above, casting a soft, golden glow upon the important guests in attendance. The air was thick with anticipation and excitement. The glistening marble floors cradled the steps of the privileged, bearing witness to the echoes of recklessness.

The walls, adorned with priceless art, stood like silent witnesses to the excesses of riches, the vanity and greed of an era where abundance was a given. Gilt-edged frames held portraits of predecessors, frozen in time, a reminder of dynasties built upon the sweat of others.

Adrian Blackwood, a seasoned and accomplished lawyer, stood at the center of the grand ballroom, bathed in the spotlight's gentle embrace. Tonight, he was the main man of every person's adoration, honored for his exceptional contributions to the legal community. When he walked into a room, his posture exuded confidence, and his mere presence exerted a charming magnetic pull that was hard to resist like a king.

In essence, Adrian Blackwood was not just a man; he was a masterpiece, a walking, talking work of art that seemed almost too good to be true. But for those unfortunate enough to know him, they understood that his outer allure was not at all a reflection of the man within. Adrian was something beyond words.

Scarlett Blackwood, his wife, also strutted into the hall, with a practiced dramatic hair flip, like a rebel in a tuxedo. The suit was her cape of nonconformity, and she wore it with the swagger of a rockstar. It was like if Beyoncé or Rihanna walked in a room. Scarlett's presence turned heads, raised eyebrows, and probably made a few fashion police officers faint from the shock of something so fresh and fabulous. The bodice, a burst of vibrant turquoise, hugged her slim frame elegantly, adorned with delicate sequins that sparkled like stars against the night sky. The neckline, a daring plunge, showed a little cleavage with intricate beadwork that shimmered like dewdrops in the morning sun.

There were three undeniable truths about Scarlett Blackwood—undeniable like the sky was blue and the sun rose in the east. First, she was gorgeous. Man! She was Drop. Dead. Gorgeous. She could make anyone else in the room feel like a mere backdrop to her beauty.