His sinful Obsession

Intruder

Over the text

"He's out. The girl is alone in the house."
Reply: Then you know what to do. Don't let her become a nuisance.
"Should I...?"
Reply: Give her something. Sleeping pills, a mild dose—just enough. And when Rafael returns... drug him.
"Is that safe? What if he finds out?"
Reply: He won't. He never will.

The screen went dark. The air in the room turned colder.

.

.

.

Later that afternoon, Frida stood quietly on the second-floor terrace. 

The sky was soft with grey, heavy with the weight of something unnamed. A maid appeared, carrying a single glass of milk, her face unreadable.

"Mr. Salvatore asked to give you this," she said, placing the glass beside her.

Frida hesitated. She never liked milk, the taste alone made her stomach churn—but something in the maid's tone made refusal feel impossible. She took the glass anyway. The maid didn't wait to see her drink—it was as if she knew she would.
Frida stared at the swirling surface of the milk, unease prickling up her arms.

Just then, another maid hurried in.
"Mr. Salvatore is back. He wants you in his study. Now."

Her heart clenched. She placed the milk down, untouched, and followed.

.

.

Inside the study, Rafael stood by the tall windows, the light casting sharp lines on his face. He turned to her, gaze dark but calm.
"You look pale," he said.
"Sit."
She did, cautiously, on the velvet sofa.
"I had these prepared for you,"
he gestured toward a tray—orange juice, fruits, blueberry curd, and neat cubes of cheese.
"Eat. I want to see it."

She blinked. "I... I just had something upstairs—"
"Frida."
His voice didn't raise, but it echoed like a command.
"Finish all of it."

Swallowing her irritation, she picked up the glass of juice and sipped slowly, the citrus burning her tongue. But the rest—she couldn't bring herself to touch it.
"I'm not hungry," she said, standing.
"May I freshen up first?"

He watched her with those unreadable eyes, then gave a small nod.
"Don't be long."
She walked out, her heart thudding. Something was wrong.
And yet, it had only just begun.

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.

.

The sound of water trickling from the showerhead echoed in the quiet room. Rafael stepped out of his bathroom, bare-chested, droplets still cascading down his sculpted torso. His sweatpants hung low, the cold air brushing against his damp skin. He ran a hand through his wet hair—then froze.

A faint click.
Too soft for a regular ear, but not his.
His body tensed. Instinct kicked in.
He grabbed the gun from the drawer and moved like a shadow through the hall. 

His first thought wasn't about the threat.
It was Frida.
She was alone.

As he turned the corner, he didn't hesitate—two masked figures. His bullets whispered through the air before their bodies even touched the floor. Silencer. Clean. Efficient.

The house alarm blared, sirens screaming through every hall. His men would know. The entire estate would lock down.
But he didn't stop.
He stormed into Frida's room—shower still running. The sound of cascading water.

He locked the door behind him and moved straight to the bathroom.
There she was.
Towel wrapped tightly, clinging to her trembling body. Her skin flushed, eyes dazed and red.

She looked at him, confusion spiraling with fear.
"You—"
He didn't speak. No time.
He grabbed her wrist, gentle but firm.
"There's an intruder. I'm getting you out."

She stumbled after him, barely keeping up. In the hallway—another sound. Without a word, Rafael wrapped one hand around her eyes. The other lifted and fired a single shot. The body fell behind them with a thud.