The Playboy's Wicked Revenge (Major editing In Progress)

13: one and half months later

Sia

It’s been two and a half since that kiss.

Since Xander Black backed me into a wall like temptation incarnate and kissed me like I was a sin he’d commit again—without hesitation, without guilt, without mercy.

Since he stole the breath from my lungs.

And ever since that moment, he’s been nothing but gentle.

No more dangerous silences. No sudden rage. Just a quiet, steady warmth that seeps into the cold corners of me I didn’t even know existed.

I visit my mother often now.

At least once a week, sometimes more if work doesn’t tie me down. She even drops by my apartment on weekends—carrying boxes stacked with homemade food, telling me I’m too thin, and asking if I’ve been sleeping well. The usual mom things.

No one in my family knows about Xander. Except my cousin Cat—short for Catherine. She runs her own boutique in LA. Loud, dramatic, with eyeliner sharp enough to cut egos. She’s the only one in the family who knows a little about Xander. Not much. Just enough to raise an eyebrow and mutter, “Girl, this better not be one of your bad decisions in expensive packaging.”

But aside from their occasional visits, my life these days… is almost entirely Xander.

I don’t know what me and him are. He hasn’t asked. I haven’t dared to either. But every morning, he brings coffee to my desk—always just the way I like it. One sugar, half milk. There’s always a heart drawn on the lid. Sloppy. Crooked. As if he’s trying to convince me he’s not secretly the most meticulous man I’ve ever met.

He leaves things behind on purpose now. A pen. A cufflink. His watch. Just enough of an excuse to come back later, knock on my door with that ridiculous smirk, and act surprised that I found it.

And at night, he finds his way to me like gravity is no longer negotiable. Some nights he crashes on the couch, especially when he’s exhausted. But mostly... he sleeps beside me. In my bed. One arm tucked beneath my pillow, the other wrapped around me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish between blinks.

There are times, just before dawn, when he mumbles in his sleep. My name. A woman’s name I don’t recognize. Words in a language I can’t place—sharp, aching syllables that roll off his tongue like half-formed prayers or broken memories. I never ask.

Because I’ve learned something crucial about Xander Black:

His demons don’t like being named.

And neither does he.

In these ten weeks, I’ve seen more of him than most people probably have in years. Not just the suave CEO with the sharp suits and sharper tongue, but the man beneath it all. The boy who never got to grow up safe. The boy who learned to wear power like armor because it’s the only thing that doesn’t leave when he bleeds.

He has anger issues.

Not the childish kind. Not petty frustration. No—his rage runs deeper. Controlled. Calculated. The kind that simmers behind his eyes like a fuse waiting to burn down a city. But it’s not aimless. It’s rooted in something older than pride.