An Heiress’s Obsession

Beatrice Sandoval strode into her suite at the Grand Royal Hotel, her heels clicking against the marble floor with practiced elegance. The scent of imported lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the crisp bite of the air-conditioning, but she barely noticed.

Her mind was elsewhere. She couldn't believe that a lowly creature wouldn't recognize her when she was famous both in the Philippines and abroad. That damned girl. Had she been living in a cave?

The encounter had been brief, but something about the girl's presence left Beatrice seething. That angelic and delicate face looked almost untouched by the world's filth. And it stirred an unfamiliar irritation within her. The very thought annoyed her more than the traffic in Metro Manila did! It was irrational, even childish, but the annoyance festered like an itch she couldn't scratch. "Just pray we wouldn't cross paths again, bitch. Or you will be getting what you deserve," she murmured to herself angrily.

Heaving a sigh, she threw her designer handbag onto the velvet chaise lounge and collapsed onto the king-sized bed, arms spread like a queen resting after a tiresome affair. The silk sheets whispered beneath her, but they offered little comfort.

Beatrice Sandoval was the crowned jewel of the Sandoval family, a model whose beauty graced the covers of international magazines. The cameras adored her, the world admired her, and the underground world feared her. But behind the flashes of the paparazzi, beyond the high-fashion runways, Beatrice exerted power in the shadows. She was a mafia princess, a woman who bent fate to her will.

Almost everything. Except for him.

Her painted nails curled the mattress as her lips twitched into a sneer. "Just so you know, Rios," she said, voice laced with venom. "Even if you rejected me, I will still have you; by hook or by crook. And I will find out whoever that woman is, the one you think can replace me."

Rios Alcaraz. The only man who had ever denied her. Once, he had been crazily in love with her. She could still remember the fire in his eyes, the way his hands trembled with need whenever she teased him. He had been obsessed, drowning in her, desperate for her touch. Such a man who wanted to own, to possess, and to claim. But Beatrice had never been the type to belong to just one man. She was indulgence incarnate, a woman of sensuality and carnality. She reveled in pleasure, took what she wanted, who she wanted, with no regard for consequences. And Rios—her perfect, possessive Rios—had found out.

She had seen the moment the light in his eyes changed, the exact second when adoration turned to disgust. The rage had come first, then the cold, sharp-edged silence. "You're nothing but a spoiled whore, Beatrice." That's what he said the night he broke the engagement. She only laughed at him, thinking he would never be able to live without her.

Whore? No, she was a queen, and queens did not beg for a man's love.

But she had underestimated him. Rios had walked away. And no man—not a single one—had ever walked away from her before.

But, it seemed like fate was trying to play its hand, by forcing them back together. To Beatrice, that was an advantage. Their families had arranged a union, a contract between the Alcaraz and Sandoval families. A marriage born not from love but from blood and power. It was inevitable. And when that day came when she walked down that aisle, Rios would have no choice but to be hers again. Yes, he might resist. He might still hate her and spit venomous words, but hatred was just another shade of passion.

Beatrice let out a slow breath, a smirk playing at the edges of her lips. The game was far from over, Rios. You can't just run away from me.

Her fingers brushed against her phone, and with a flick, the screen illuminated. She scrolled through messages, and at the perfect moment, her phone vibrated. Beatrice sat up, silk pooling around her legs as she answered. "Talk."

A man's voice came through the other end. "He's here, Miss Sandoval. Rios Alcaraz just arrived."

"Good." Without another word, she ended the call with a sharp snap of her phone.

The room was silent again, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning. But inside Beatrice's mind, thoughts swirled in a delicious storm. This time, her gaze drifted toward the massive and gold-framed vanity mirror on the opposite wall. Slowly, she rose from the bed. She stopped in front of the mirror, her reflection meeting her with an unblinking stare.

She tilted her head slightly, taking in the vision before her. Even after the long journey and despite the minor irritation of the hallway incident, she was flawless. Her blonde hair cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders, framing high cheekbones and full lips painted a deep shade of crimson. Her smooth skin which had always been kissed by the hands of luxury gleamed under the warm light. The silk dress she wore clung to her curves, tied loosely at the waist, hinting at the perfect body beneath.

She described herself as a living masterpiece. She dragged her fingers over her collarbone, then down the delicate dip of her throat. Rios used to worship her there, his lips branding her skin, his voice rough with possession. And yet, he still had the nerve to walk away. Her gaze darkened, the memory of his rejection still a slow, burning wound beneath her perfect exterior. But Beatrice was not a woman who wept over lost lovers. No—she was a woman who reclaimed them. Rios thought he had escaped her grasp. Well, he was wrong.

She leaned closer to the mirror, her fingers tracing her own reflection. "You can't run from me forever, Rios," she whispered, her breath fogging the glass for a fleeting second before vanishing.

She admired herself once more, knowing full well that she was irresistible. It was only a matter of time. Soon enough, Rios Alcaraz would be tangled in her web again, whether he wanted to or not.