Chapter 3

Saturday dawns bright and unapologetically golden, the kind of morning that feels like it’s daring you to believe in possibility. Sunlight spills across my bedroom floor, warm and insistent, as if the universe itself is whispering, Today’s going to be a good day.

But how will it end? That’s a mystery I’m not naïve enough to predict.

I peel myself out of bed, muscles loose from sleep but nerves already taut. My feet pad across the hardwood as I make my way to the bathroom. At the sink, I pause, staring into the mirror. My reflection looks composed—amber eyes steady, jawline sharp, lips relaxed—but inside, I’m a storm. Today’s the day. The day I finally meet Diego Fuentes face-to-face.

Three years of obsession. Three years of studying him, chasing whispers, building a psychological profile from shadows and rumors. And now, I’m about to walk into his world.

I don’t know why he affects me the way he does. Maybe it’s the danger. Maybe it’s the power. Maybe it’s the way his photo made my pulse spike the first time I saw it—those light brown eyes flecked with green and gold, that mouth carved like sin. Whatever it is, it’s been crawling under my skin ever since.

I glance down at the bulge in my sleeping shorts. Apparently, I’m not the only one excited. I chuckle, shaking my head. At least I’m consistent.

I smile at my reflection. I’m objectively handsome—lean, toned, with just enough softness to be approachable. I turn my head, studying my profile. Strong jaw. Smooth skin. Full lips. I know how to use what I’ve got. I relieve myself, wash my hands, and head to the closet. It’s never too early to plan an outfit for a night of seduction and survival.

Inside, I dig through the chaos of fabric, tossing shirts and jeans until I find it—a sheer gold shirt that clings like a whisper. I lay it on the bed, then hunt for my black pants, the ones that fit like a second skin and make my ass look criminal. Found them. I add my high-top black sneakers to the pile. Not bad.

Now for the final touch.

I open my underwear drawer and dig until I find my lacy gold panties. The feel of lace against my skin is a secret indulgence—soft, sensual, just a little wicked. I lay them beside the outfit and grin. Perfect.

It’s 12:30 p.m. Still plenty of time. I head downstairs and make a quick breakfast—eggs, toast, fruit. I eat while contemplating the hours ahead. I decide to hit the gym. Burn off some nerves. Get the blood flowing.

After cleaning up, I head upstairs for a fast shower. I wash quickly, ignoring the persistent twitch of arousal. Diego’s hands. Diego’s mouth. Diego’s everything. My body’s already halfway to surrender.

I dress in a sleeveless shirt and ball shorts, slide into my workout sneakers, and grab my keys. The gym’s only ten minutes away. I parked, grabbed my duffel and water bottle, and headed inside. The desk attendant nods as I scan my card. I make my way to the treadmill, starting slow, then building to a steady pace. Not too fast—I want to stay sharp. Just enough to clear my head.

Thirty minutes later, I hop off, take a long swig of water, and move through the rest of my routine—weights, resistance training, core work. I push hard, letting the burn distract me from the anticipation clawing at my chest. By the time I check the clock again, it’s almost 5 p.m. Damn. Didn’t mean to lose track.

I rinse off quickly in the locker room—just enough to cool down. I’ll shower properly at home. Again, I ignore the persistent throb of arousal. Tonight, I remind myself. Tonight.

I throw on clean clothes and head out, stopping at a diner down the street. I need to eat enough now so I won’t have to worry about alcohol later. The server seats me and hands me a menu. I scan it and settle on meatloaf and potatoes—comfort food. Something grounding.

When the plate arrives, I eat slowly, savoring each bite. I stare out the window, lost in thought. What am I really walking into tonight? Whose attention am I trying to grab? What am I willing to risk?

A shiver runs through me.

Diego could kill me on sight. Or he could want me enough not to—at least not right away. I’m hoping for the latter. I’m not in a rush to die.

I’ve seen the aftermath of his ruthlessness. Nothing confirmed, but the whispers are enough—torture, disappearances, bodies that never turn up. He’s meticulous. No fingerprints. No loose ends. No guilt by association.

I finish eating and glance at my watch—7:30. Time flies when you’re obsessing over your own mortality.

I drive home and head straight to the bathroom. I fill the tub with cool water and Epsom salt, strip down, and sink into the bath. The chill bites at my skin, but it feels good—restorative. I rest my head on the edge, eyes drifting shut.

I jolt awake, coughing and gasping. I’d slipped too far under.

Great. I won’t need Diego to kill me—I’ll kill myself at this rate.

I climb out and check the clock—9 p.m. I step into the shower, turning the water warm. The heat melts into my muscles, loosening everything. I feel ready. Limber. Alive. I wash thoroughly, imagining the night ahead—pleasure, danger, seduction. If I have my way, it’ll be all three.

I dry off and moisturize, knowing I’ll need it to slide into those pants. I head to the bedroom, grab my lace panties, and slide them up my legs. I walk to the full-length mirror and admire my body—tall, lean, defined. Just soft enough in the right places. I turn, admiring the curve of my ass in the lace. Plush. Full. Perfect.

I shimmy into the pants, button them with a breath, and slip on the sheer gold shirt. It clings to my chest, my brown nipples visible through the fabric. They tighten into points as I stare. I smirk.

Just what I need to grab someone’s attention.

I add accessories—rings, a slim gold chain, and a spritz of cologne at the base of my throat. Something expensive. Dangerous. Irresistible.

I sit on the edge of the bed and slide on my sneakers, bouncing my leg as nerves creep in. I check my phone. No new messages. No last-minute instructions.

It’s just me now.

I stand, take one last look in the mirror, and grab my keys.

Tonight, I walk into Diego Fuentes’s world.

And I intend to make damn sure he doesn’t forget me.