Page 31 of Spice and Revenge

“End her,” the command is sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.

Moments pass as the room remains quiet, perhaps the young boy is hesitating. But then I hear the bang. He did it. The teenage boy shot my sister.

The deafening roar of the gunshot shatters the stillness of the room, signaling the end of the life I’d always known and the beginning of my new living nightmare.

Chapter Twelve

Leonardo

The library is dark tonight, with the smell of old books lingering in the air. I'm sitting at a desk in a corner with my nose buried in an old history book. The pages rustle gently in the breeze that comes through the open windows.

The quietness is interrupted when the door of the large room creaks open. I look up from my book, watching as Lorena sashays towards me. My hands tighten around the edges of the hardcover as I take in her nightgown. It’s a different one from what she wore that night, the night I dreamt about her. The soft, cotton material hugs her soft curves, and the neckline dips low, just enough for me to see a hint of her cleavage.

Long, flowing blonde hair that haunts my thoughts, the familiar scent of vanilla mixed with strawberries clinging to her skin. Her green eyes glint like emeralds in the dim lights, and her face makes my stomach flip.

She stops directly in front of my desk, looking down at me with a serious expression on her face. “You called for me,” she says quietly, her voice carrying across the room. “Did you need something?” Her hands are clasped behind her back, and her gaze meets mine evenly.

“Have a seat,” I command, gesturing towards the empty chair beside the desk.

She eyes me warily. “I’d rather stand, sir,” she says with an edge in her voice.

“It’s an order,” I say sternly.

In the dim lighting, I observe her swallow nervously before reluctantly taking the seat. There’s a nervous stiffness in her posture, but she still holds her head high as always. She looks straight into my eyes, daringly. A smile touches my lips, and I nod to myself, satisfied with her defiance.

“Tomorrow, you'll accompany me for my business meeting with an investor,” I announce in a firm voice, leaving no room for argument.

But, of course, Lorena is not one to agree without a fight.

Rolling her shoulders, she cocks her head to address me. “Sir, I fail to see why you require a chef for your business affairs,” she says coolly.

“I have specific dietary requirements,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm.

She looks up at me again, her eyebrows raised, but her words are sharp. “Following you on your personal or business trips isn’t part of my job requirements, sir.”

My blood heats, and my jaw is clenching slightly. My hand twitches at my side, but I force it to stay still.

“You will do whatever I tell you to do,” I manage through gritted teeth.

Lorena looks at me defiantly, narrowing her eyes. She doesn't speak for several seconds, and I can feel anger building in my chest as I wait for her to respond.

I don’t understand why she has a problem with it. Most chefs would leap at the chance to accompany me on such prestigious trips, showcasing their skills. But Lorena isn't like them. She's unlike any woman I've encountered before.

Leaning back in my seat, I observe her with a clouded gaze. “Why are you against this? Is it the same reason you don’t show your face on your Instagram? Are you hiding from the world?”

“I'm not hiding from anyone,” she replies casually, almost too casually.

“You use a fake name, and you never show your face,” I point out, studying her closely.

She looks unfazed by my accusations, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s actually telling the truth or if she’s a damn good actress.

Despite the doubts stemming from her background check, the clandestine phone call, and her anonymous online persona as a chef, I can't shake the feeling that she's hiding something—or perhaps I'm simply being paranoid.

I’m never paranoid. When I get a gut feeling, I never doubt it because it’s always right.

But with Lorena, nothing seems sure. Well, except for the attraction between us.

“Some people just don’t want fame, you know,” she says, drawing me out of my thoughts. “Some of us just prefer a simple, quiet life.” That makes sense, although something about the way she says it makes it sound like a dig at my family’s wealth and fame.

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