Page 157 of The Owner's Temptation

Then I drop the final card.

“Is that the price you’re ready to pay?”

A long inhale on his end. No answer.

“I’ll give you forty-eight hours,” I say. “And then I burn it all.”

The line clicks dead.

I stare at the phone for a beat longer, then set it down, draining the rest of my espresso.

He’ll call back.

Because he’s not just running scared now, he’s cornered.

And a man like Lorenzo DeLuca?

Cornered men either surrender.

Or theykeep fighting a war they can’t win.

* * *

It’s nearly noon, and I’m one shallow breath away from snapping.

Sienna has been driving me insane all fucking morning. A quiet, calculated menace in lipstick and heels—my personal hell dressed in black and white.

She’s such a fuckingbrat.

A beautiful, infuriating, untouchable brat. And my palm isachingto teach her another lesson.

She walked into the office this morning like she owns it—short, tight dress clinging to her curves like sin. Black and white, classy at first glance… until you actuallylook.

Because it’s short. So fucking short I can see the shadow of the garter straps when she walks.

Stirrups.

She’s wearingfucking stirrups.

Black, sheer stockings attached to garters beneath that tiny little dress—and she’s not shy about it either. I know because she’s made damn sure I’ve seen them.

All day.

Meeting after meeting, she’s a quiet little shadow just behind the guests, collecting papers, handing out coffee, standing just out of view of the conference camera.

But notmyview.

Never mine.

She knows exactly where I sit at the head of the table, exactly where my eyes land when someone’s speaking.

And she’s always in that space—leaning over the sideboard, picking up a file she “dropped,” arms straight, legs straighter, ass out, dress sliding high enough that those garter straps peek out and taunt me like little whispers of disobedience.

Smirk locked in place.

Message received.

Please punish me, sir.

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