The Taming Game

The invitation came in a velvet envelope, sealed with a black wax K. Elegant. Commanding. Bekky ran her fingers over it, the paper smooth, the scent on it distinctly Kendrick—cedarwood and something darker, headier.

You are expected at 8 PM. Don't be late. Wear the dress.

A separate box sat beside the envelope, wrapped in satin ribbon. Inside, a crimson silk gown shimmered like sin. The neckline dipped scandalously low, and the slit promised mischief with every step. She stared at it, heat crawling up her throat.

"Who does he think he is?" she muttered, but her hands were already moving—unzipping, stepping into it, letting the silk slide over her skin like his fingers had once done.

The Hale Estate was a cathedral of glass and marble, perched high above the city, glowing like Olympus. Bekky stepped out of the car, her heels clicking against the polished stone. Inside, chandeliers sparkled above glittering guests in tuxedos and couture. The air was thick with perfume, champagne, and old money.

And then she saw him.

Kendrick stood by the grand staircase, tailored in black on black, his presence a gravity of its own. Their eyes locked. His gaze raked over her with slow deliberation, and his lips curled—not a smile, a claim.

He crossed the floor like he owned it and everyone on it. "You clean up well," he murmured, voice grazing her ear as he leaned in.

"And you still issue orders like a goddamn tyrant," she shot back, chin lifting.

His hand ghosted over her lower back, guiding her into the ballroom. "And yet here you are. Wearing the dress. Coming when I call."

Her breath hitched. She hated how his voice seeped under her skin like smoke, how his proximity made her body ache.

"I came for the free champagne," she lied.

He smirked. "Sure you did."

She mingled, danced, sipped. Kendrick watched her from across the room like a lion eyeing prey. Then came him—a young tech mogul with cocky charm and too much interest.

"You don't look like you belong here," the man said.

Bekky arched a brow. "That's not really a compliment."

He laughed. "No, I mean you stand out—in a good way."

She allowed a flirtatious smile, partly to spite Kendrick, partly to feel some semblance of control. But the moment she felt heat on her spine, she knew—he was behind her.

"Bekky," Kendrick's voice cut through, smooth but sharp. "I need a word."

She turned slowly. "We're talking."

He gave the man a look that could freeze hell. "You were."

Then he took her arm—gently, but firm—and led her through a hidden corridor into a private lounge.

The door clicked shut. Silence. Tension thick as oil.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded.

"I don't like sharing what's mine."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You wore my dress. You showed up at my event. You danced in my world. Don't pretend you don't know what that means."

She stepped forward, anger fizzing. "I'm not yours, Kendrick. This isn't a fantasy you get to script."

"You sure?" He stepped closer, crowding her. "Because the way you looked at me from across that room? The way you're breathing right now?"

Her pulse pounded. "You're insufferable."

"And you're addicted to it." His hand cupped her jaw, tilting her face up. "You like the fire. You like me lighting it."

Before she could reply, his lips crashed into hers.

It wasn't a kiss—it was a conquest. His mouth was demanding, dominant, coaxing a moan from her throat. He tasted like whiskey and sin. Her hands found his shirt, fisting the fabric as he walked her backward until her back met the wall.

"I hate you," she gasped against his lips.

"You'll scream my name before the night's over," he promised darkly.

Clothes tugged, breaths tangled. His hand slid up her thigh, slipping under the silk, finding heat and hunger. Bekky arched into him, needing more, needing everything.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered against her neck, voice rough.

But she didn't. Couldn't.

Instead, she whimpered his name—half curse, half prayer.

After, they sat in silence, bodies still tangled. The air was thick with unspoken truths.

Kendrick reached into a drawer and pulled out a velvet box. "For you."

Bekky opened it and froze.

A gold necklace. At its center, a teardrop ruby. No, not just any ruby—her mother's. She hadn't seen it in ten years. Not since the night everything changed.

Her blood ran cold. "How do you have this?"

Kendrick's expression darkened. "Because I know more about you than you think."

She stared at him, heart pounding. "Why?"

"Because nothing about you is an accident, Bekky. Not this job. Not me. Not us."

He leaned in, brushed her cheek. "Welcome to the real game, darling."

Bekky's fingers trembled around the velvet box, the ruby necklace staring back at her like a bleeding memory. She couldn't breathe.

"This… This belonged to my mother," she whispered, voice cracking under the weight of the past.

Kendrick didn't flinch. "I know."

"How did you get it?" she snapped, pulling away, the heat from earlier twisting into confusion, then fury.

"Because I've been watching you for a long time."

Silence. A bone-deep chill ran down her spine.

"Don't play games with me, Kendrick. What the hell is this?" Her voice rose, raw. "Why do you have something that disappeared with her when she—"

"Died?" he finished, voice low. "Or was taken from you?"

Her knees nearly gave out. "What are you saying?"

He stood, no longer the arrogant billionaire host but something more dangerous. Controlled. Calculated.

"Your mother worked for my family," he said. "Did you know that?"

Her lips parted, stunned. "No…"

"She was a private chef. For my father."

Bekky's heart thudded. She remembered glimpses—her mother coming home exhausted, the scent of herbs and wine clinging to her. Always hush-hush about her employer.

"She left one night," Kendrick continued. "Didn't return. You know the story you were told. That she collapsed. But that wasn't the whole truth."

He stepped closer, slower this time, as if navigating a minefield.

"I found the necklace in my father's old safe two years ago. And then I found you."

Bekky's entire world tilted.

"So what?" she spat. "You brought me here as some twisted form of closure? Or revenge?"

"No," he growled. "I brought you here because I couldn't stop thinking about you. Because the first time I saw your eyes, I saw fire and pain. The same kind that lives in me."

Her breath caught. The heat between them earlier—was that part of this twisted history?

"I don't know what's worse," she said softly. "That you used me… or that I let you."

He cupped her face again, gently this time. "I never used you. I wanted you. I want you. But I also want you to know the truth. And the truth is…" His voice dropped, nearly a whisper, "I don't think your mother died by accident. And I think my father had something to do with it."

Bekky staggered back, the room spinning. The dress clung to her body like a second skin, but suddenly she felt exposed, vulnerable.

"And what? You're telling me this now? After you've" she paused, eyes flashing, "claimed me?"

"Because I didn't plan for this," Kendrick said, jaw clenched. "I didn't plan for how much you'd matter."

She turned away, staring out the window into the glittering city, her reflection shattered against the glass.

"I need time," she said finally.

"No," he replied, stepping behind her. "What you need is the truth. And me."

His hands slid down her arms, firm, anchoring her. She should've pulled away. She didn't.

"You want to know what really scares me?" she whispered. "It's not that you've been watching me. It's not the necklace. It's that despite everything… when you touch me, I forget to be afraid."

He wrapped his arms around her, lips brushing her shoulder. "Then don't be afraid, Bekky. Be mine."

She turned in his arms, the war between her heart and her past burning behind her eyes.

"I don't belong to anyone."

He leaned in, voice silken and dark. "Then let me be the first to change that."

Later that night, Bekky lay alone in her apartment, the ruby necklace on her nightstand, burning like a secret. Her phone buzzed.

Kendrick: I meant every word. You don't have to fight me, Bekky. Just fight with me.

She stared at the screen, heart twisted in knots. In the dark silence of her room, she whispered:

"What the hell are you doing to me, Kendrick Hale?"

But she already knew the answer.

He was unraveling her. And she wasn't sure she wanted him to stop.