A Birthday Invitation

Dante

The espresso machine hissed to life like it was spitting venom—fitting, considering the house was full of snakes. I leaned against the marble counter, sipping my coffee black, bitter, and scalding—just how I liked it. It did little to mask the taste of last night still lingering on my tongue.

Her.

Her taste. Her tears. Her pride.

I should feel guilty.

I don't.

She let me. Mouth open, eyes wide, trembling hands trying to decide whether to fight or surrender. I knew I pushed too far, said things no decent man should ever say—then again, no one's ever accused me of decency.

And yet… she took me. Choked on me. Looked at me like she hated every second—and that made it feel even better.

There's something about breaking someone who thinks they can't be bent. Something about watching defiance curl into submission… even if just for a moment.

She spat it all back in my face, though. Not literally. No, she spit it all over my designer shoes like a final act of rebellion. God, that made me hard again.

A cruel smirk tugged at my lips just thinking about it.

She'd never say it, but she liked being under me. Part of her did. The part she wants to kill. The part I want to keep pulling out of her—kicking and screaming.

The sound of footsteps broke my thoughts. Light, hesitant ones. I knew it was her before I saw her.

Isabella.

She walked into the dining room like a storm pretending to be a breeze. Hair down, eyes sharp, lips sealed. Dressed like nothing happened. Like I didn't ruin her throat last night. Like I didn't see her unravel in the dark.

She went straight for the toast—classic avoidance tactic. Quick in and out. No drama.

Too bad.

Lorenzo looked up from his usual morning newspaper routine, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose like he was some noble scholar and not the heir to a blood-stained empire.

"Sleep well?" he asked her, flat as usual.

I watched her eyes twitch. She sat without looking at either of us and grabbed a fork, stabbing a piece of melon like it had insulted her mother.

"I dreamt of stabbing you with a butter knife," she muttered under her breath.

Lorenzo blinked. Didn't even react. Typical. The man's allergic to tension.

But me? I let out a low, cold chuckle, one that cut the room in half.

"Still mad, strawberry?" I asked, sipping my coffee again, eyes locked on hers.

She stiffened but didn't look away. Brave girl. Or stupid.

"Mad implies I care," she said.

I stepped away from the wall, slow and deliberate, and walked toward the table. I didn't sit. I stood behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of my body.

"You cared last night," I whispered near her ear.

She froze, fork mid-air. Her neck flushed pink, then red.

"I cared about surviving," she snapped.

"Sure. Let's call it that."

She whipped her head toward me, eyes blazing. "Don't talk to me like that."

I tilted my head, grinning. "Like what?"

"Like I'm one of your toys."

"Oh, sweetheart," I said, voice soft, laced with danger. "You were never a toy. You were a feast."

She slapped the fork down on the table and stood. "Go to hell."

"Already there," I said, stepping aside as she stormed out.

Lorenzo cleared his throat, flipping a page in his paper.

Hours later…

I didn't knock.

I never do.

The door to her room creaked open under my hand, the faintest trace of her perfume greeting me before I even saw her. Jasmine and vanilla—too soft for someone with such a sharp fucking mouth. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

There she was. Standing by the window, wrapped in nothing but anger and that ridiculous lace robe she wore like it could protect her. Her arms were crossed, one hand gripping the opposite elbow like she was holding herself together.

"Hey," I said. Barely above a whisper. Not because I was afraid—hell no—but because I wanted her to lean in to hear me. I wanted her attention, always.

She didn't turn around. Just stayed frozen like a sculpture made of fury and regret.

"What do you want?" Her voice was flat, but the edges were scorched with rage. Good. That meant she still felt something. Cold silence would've been harder to work with.

I walked farther in, slowly, like I didn't already know how much I'd fucked up.

Well… not fucked up. Let's not pretend I didn't enjoy every fking second of last night. Her on her knees. Her lips stretched around my cock. That defiance in her eyes even as she gagged on me.

She looked ruined.

She looked perfect.

But now she was pissed. And that was… inconvenient.

"Get your hands off me, Dante." She turned sharply, shoving my chest with both palms. I let her. Took a step back and let her pretend she was in control.

Then she marched to the floor-to-ceiling window and pressed her forehead to the glass like she could melt through it and disappear.

"I'm trying to be nice here, Isabella," I said. And for once, that wasn't entirely a lie.

"Fuck you and fuck being nice." Her voice cracked and that tiny waver—I fucking heard it. "You violated my privacy!"

I did. No use pretending otherwise. Now she wasn't mad about the invasion. Not really. She was mad about how she reacted. How her body responded. How mine did.

"I went out of line," I said, forcing some contrition into my tone. "Sorry again."

"Fuck you and get the fuck out of my room."

The tear that escaped her eye wasn't lost on me. But she turned her head, wiped it before it could fall. She hated showing weakness.

"It's my birthday…" I said quietly.

Nothing.

"I'm twenty-seven."

Still nothing.

Her silence hit harder than any insult. But I didn't leave. I stepped closer instead.

She didn't turn. Not even when I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the small black envelope.

"Here's an invitation," I murmured. "To the party tonight."

"I don't care." She cut me off without looking.

"You're a jerk," she added. "And I want absolutely nothing to do with you. Unless it's fucking you to get those nasty pictures back."

I smirked, just a little. She was bluffing. She thought she could use my game against me.

But baby girl, I invented it.

"Here," I said, dropping two more photos on the edge of her dresser. One showed her getting into that Evangeline car in Spain. The other was outside REC—her entering the building with her face slightly turned, her features barely visible.

Her breath hitched.

"That's where the party is tonight," I added casually. "REC. You'll get to see Fernando."

Still she said nothing. But her body betrayed her—her back straightened, jaw clenched.

I knew I had her attention now.

"I shouldn't have done what I did," I continued, lowering my voice again. "But you should've seen yourself last night."

She turned now. Slowly. Her eyes locked on mine and the storm there was wild. Untamed.

"You looked… undone," I whispered. "Like you were drowning and loving it at the same time."

"Stop," she hissed.

"You think I don't remember the way you whimpered around my cock?" I took a step forward. "The way you looked at me with tears running down your cheeks and your lips stretched wide, like you didn't know whether to bite me or beg for more?"

"I said stop!"

But she didn't move.

"I remember all of it," I said darkly, stepping even closer. Now we were only a foot apart. I could smell her shampoo—something clean, something fake.

Her eyes shimmered. Not with lust. Not yet. But with confusion. With a twisted cocktail of hate and heat.

And that… that was exactly where I wanted her.

"You think I do this to just anyone?" I let my tone soften, made it sound like I was confessing. "You think I'd waste my time planning this… watching you… waiting for you—if I didn't want something real?"

Her lips parted just slightly.

There. That crack in the wall.

"Go fuck yourself," she whispered.

"Can't." I smirked. "Got someone else in mind."

"You're sick."

"And you're curious."

She flinched like I hit a nerve.

I walked past her now, over to her desk, and tapped the envelope again. "Wear something red," I said. "Or black. I'll know what it means."

She stared at me like I was filth, like I was something she wanted to scrape off her skin.

But she didn't kick me out again.

Didn't throw the photos away.

Didn't tear up the invitation.

I turned to the door, slowly, letting her think I was done. "Just come," I said. "Just once. After that, you'll never see me again if you don't want to."

Another lie, but it sounded believable.

That's the thing with power.

You don't take it. You make them give it to you.

And I was almost there.