His sinful Obsession

Possession

Two weeks ago.

The restaurant shimmered under soft amber light , a blur of laughter, perfume, and whispered indulgence.
Crystal chandeliers scattered gold across polished tables. Frida sat across from Rafael, her ivory dress catching the light like something too delicate for this place. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, restless.

"Why did we come here?" she asked quietly, eyes on the swirling wine she wasn't drinking.

Rafael's gaze never left her.
"To dine."

Her brows furrowed.
"When can I leave?"

He tilted his head, a faint smirk curling at his lips.
"Leave? where?"

"Anywhere that's not here."

His voice dropped, soft and sharp all at once.
"Then try."

She froze.
"What?"

Rafael leaned back, the smirk gone now, his expression unreadable.
He muttered slowly, almost whispering,
"I dare you."

Before Frida could speak again, a shadow loomed beside their table.
"Salvatore, mi amigo," a voice boomed , thick with smoke and arrogance. 

Señor Velásquez. 

His silver hair gleamed under the chandelier, his suit smelled of cigars and power gone stale. His eyes , dark, greedy things, slid over Frida with a slowness that made her stomach turn.

"¿Y esta joya quién es?" (And who is this jewel?)
Rafael's jaw flexed, his posture stiff.
"No es asunto tuyo." (She's none of your business.)
Velásquez chuckled, leaning on the table, too close, his teeth yellow against the dim light.
"Demasiado bella para esconderla, hermano." (Too beautiful to hide, brother.)

He took another drag from his cigar, exhaling the smoke in lazy circles toward her.
"Deberías presentarla... como se merece." (You should introduce her... properly.)

Frida looked away, her hands gripping the napkin on her lap, throat tight.
Rafael's silence stretched thin, dangerous.
Frida smiled politely, shrinking in her seat. Her throat burned. That look... it made her skin crawl.
"I need the washroom," she whispered, rising quickly.

Velásquez's eyes lingered a moment longer before he smirked, patted Rafael's shoulder, and walked off , the smell of tobacco and old money trailing behind him.

By the time she returned, Velasquez was gone and Rafael sat unnervingly calm, eyes on the untouched wine glass.

.

.

.

The ride home was silent, heavy . the city lights slicing through the tinted glass like fractured memories. Rafael's hands rested on the steering wheel, calm, controlled. 

Frida finally spoke, her voice tight. "Why didn't you give me back my phone?"

"It's still under observation," he said evenly. 
"It could be tapped. There's no need for you to contact anyone."

She turned toward him, disbelief flaring.
"That's not your choice to make!"

His gaze stayed on the road.
"It became mine the moment you endangered yourself that night."

"That's not fair... "

"Fair?" he cut in, a humorless chuckle escaping him. "I'm not interested in fairness. I'm interested in keeping you alive."

They stepped into the penthouse, air too still to breathe. Frida faced him, trembling but holding her ground.
"You're caging me! I can't talk to anyone. I can't even step outside without your permission. I'm lonely here, Rafael. This isn't a home..."