His Ruthless Temptation

Chapter Six

It's been three days since Acero left, and I've settled into a strange rhythm, suspended between restless waiting and moments of calm I can barely understand. At first, the silence here was suffocating—no horns blaring, no distant hum of New York's never-ending chaos. Instead, there's an unsettling quiet in this place, where each sound seems amplified. I wander through the halls, trailing my hand along the ornate walls, every room a reminder of his power, of how carefully he's crafted this world to keep me here.

The staff barely glance at me as I pass, their eyes lowered or turned away, as if I'm some ghost haunting these corridors. And every now and then, I go outside, finding myself in the sprawling gardens, acres of land surrounded by high walls that seem to stretch forever. I know better than to think I could just walk out; even from a distance, I can see the guards stationed along the perimeter, their eyes scanning constantly.

On the first day, I suppose they noticed my boredom, the way I drifted from room to room with nothing to hold my attention. By the evening, they brought in a television, setting it up in the corner of my room along with a stack of books. At least now I have a way to pass the time. I've sunk into series I'd never bother with back home, flicking from one show to the next, or thumbing through the novels they've provided—mostly thrillers and romance, like some twisted irony meant to keep me entertained in captivity.

Sometimes Maricruz stops by. She's been instructed to look after me, and while I'm grateful for the company, it's hard to forget who she works for, the man responsible for me being here. I can fake a smile, a polite conversation, but not much more. There's only so far I'm willing to pretend, even if it means passing my days in silence.

But the gardens are different. When I'm outside, even under the watchful eyes of the guards, I feel a sliver of freedom I can't quite name. The air here is warmer, the sky brighter, everything so different from the city's relentless gloom. Palm trees cast long shadows over winding paths, and flowering vines climb the walls, filling the air with the heady scent of tropical blooms. It's beautiful here, almost heartbreakingly so, as though this place was built to deceive, to distract me from what lies beyond.

Today, I find myself sitting on a stone bench in one of the garden's quieter corners. The scent of jasmine is thick in the air, and I let my eyes drift shut, the warmth seeping into my skin, anchoring me.

But even here, my thoughts circle back to the same dark conclusion as I've had for the past few days : How do I kill him? I've thought it over from every angle, my mind obsessively replaying every interaction, every piece of information I've gathered since I arrived. The plan has to be flawless. I can't afford a single mistake. But every time I try to think it through, the same obstacles stand in my way. Acero isn't someone I can simply catch off guard. He's nearly twice my size, his strength more than physical—it's in his presence, in the way he fills a room. Even landing a single slap seems impossible; he would stop me before I could even lift my hand.

And he's no fool. He would be ready. I can feel it, the way his gaze lingers a beat too long, as though he's waiting for me to act.

Killing him would be only the first step. Even if I succeeded, I would still have to get past his guards, find my way through the maze of his estate, and escape into a city where his influence seems to be rooted deep. I can't rely on strength; I'll need precision, patience. I'll need to strike cleanly, and it has to be final.

I close my eyes, pressing my fingers to my temples, trying to focus, to think of some vulnerability, some crack in his armor. But the weight of it all presses down on me—the impossibility of it, the sheer danger of what I'm planning. This isn't just about killing him; it's about surviving the storm that would follow.

As I sit there, lost in thought, I hear the faint sound of footsteps approaching. I tense, instinctively holding my breath, as a figure comes into view—a woman. She's strikingly beautiful, with blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a sun-kissed complexion. Her outfit is immaculate, the very definition of elegance: a fitted white blouse with delicate lace details at the cuffs, paired with high-waisted trousers that drape perfectly along her legs, cinched at the waist with a thin belt. The subtle glint of gold at her wrist and a pair of classic, understated earrings complete the look. There's a confidence in her stride, an ease in the way she moves that suggests she knows exactly where she belongs.