Twisted Obsession (Editing)

70 - Bored, Bratty, and Bare

Athena Luciana Bianchi

I lay there in Lorenzo's bed, my eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracing the intricate patterns in the paint. My body felt languid, wrapped in nothing but a silk bedsheet.

Lorenzo was doing god knows what on this island, he bought me here to a goddamn island in seychelles and was on a business call right fucking now. "Ugh," I groaned, reaching over lazily to grab his cardholder from the nightstand. I pulled out his credit card, the smooth metal feeling familiar in my grip. I smirked to myself. Retail therapy was the best kind of therapy, after all.

My fingers flew across the screen of his laptop, an online shopping spree calling my name. I bought new heels—four pairs to be exact—followed by some outrageously expensive bags. Then, I went all in on Agent Provocateur lingerie, because, well, I deserved it. But why stop there? A few more pairs of heels, a couple of dresses to add to the collection, and, just for fun, a red Porsche—because why the hell not?

I was in my element, basking in the joy of knowing that Lorenzo had absolutely no clue what I was doing. But just as I was adding another set of designer bags to my cart, I felt a sharp, sudden slap to my ass.

"OW!" I yelped, my body jolting forward. I whipped my head around, finding Lorenzo standing behind me, his eyes full of mischief.

"The bank called," he said flatly, his voice almost amused.

I rolled my eyes and let out a dramatic sigh. "I really didn't even spend that much," I muttered.

Lorenzo's eyes widened, and he crossed his arms, clearly trying to maintain his composure. "You spent almost a million dollars in half an hour. That's... concerning."

"Oops," I mumbled, already starting to close the laptop, feigning innocence. "The lingerie was for you, but since you're being such a cranky little baby, I'll just cancel the order."

"Don't bother," he replied, a smirk creeping across his lips. "I already approved your purchases."

His phone buzzes in his hand — again. Without missing a beat, he takes the call like it's some life-or-death matter, and I scoff, loud enough for him to hear.

He leans in to kiss my cheek, whispering an apology, but I barely register it. My jaw tightens. I'm fucking pissed. He dragged my ass all the way to this private island he bought in Seychelles only to fucking work. Fucking lovely.

He pushes the balcony door open like he's escaping, stepping outside into the gold-tinged morning. The ocean beyond sighs against the shore, soft and rhythmic, and birds trill in the distance like it's a damn fairytale. Romantic, sure — if I wasn't being blatantly neglected on a private fucking island by my billionaire boyfriend.

I watch him for a moment — the way his broad shoulders shift as he talks, how his hair catches the sunlight, that stupid phone glued to his ear like it's surgically attached. Always talking. Always working. Like the empire will collapse without his voice.

I roll my eyes, flopping back onto the silk sheets for half a second before sitting back up, fuming. "I'm not liking this, Lorenzo," I call out, my voice laced with that razor-sharp sweetness — sugar that cuts. "You're working twenty-four-seven even on vacation?"

My arms cross beneath my bare chest as I sit up fully, watching him pace across the stone terrace. He's shirtless, his back flexing with every stride, muscles golden and tense. He's speaking in that clipped, commanding tone he only uses when moving empires and toppling rivals. The kind of voice that makes grown men tremble.

And me? Unfortunately? Very wet.

But that's beside the point.

He doesn't respond.