The Obsession

Suite 1703

Chapter Five – Suite 1703

The corridors of the Hotel Palacio stretched endlessly, carpet muffling Isabella’s hesitant steps. Her pulse thundered as she approached the door marked 1703. She had dressed carefully, though she hated admitting it—black silk blouse, slim trousers, her hair pinned back in defiance of the storm inside her.

Her hand hovered over the door.

This is insane, she told herself.

And then she knocked.

The door opened almost instantly, as though he had been waiting. Matteo Ricci stood framed in the golden light of the suite, tall, devastating in another tailored suit, tie loosened as though formality bent itself for him alone.

“Isabella,” he said softly, and hearing her name from his lips felt like silk dragged over skin.

She stepped inside, her breath catching. The suite was vast—floor-to-ceiling windows spilling moonlight over velvet chairs, crystal glasses glinting on the bar, a view of Madrid spread beneath them like a secret. But the room wasn’t what stole her attention.

It was him.

Matteo moved closer, unhurried, like a predator savoring the chase. “I wasn’t certain you would come.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Isabella whispered.

“And yet you did.” His gaze locked on hers, molten and unyielding. “That tells me everything I need to know.”

She forced a steady breath. “What do you want from me?”

Matteo’s lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile—it was possession disguised as charm. “Everything.”

The word wrapped around her like chains.

For a moment, silence thickened between them, charged and unspoken. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. The air itself pulsed with tension, each second stretched thin with anticipation.

Finally, he moved—not to claim her, but to pour wine into two crystal glasses. He handed one to her, his fingers brushing hers deliberately this time. Electricity surged through her veins.

“To destiny,” he murmured.

Isabella swallowed hard, her lips brushing the rim of the glass. The wine was rich, dark, intoxicating—just like him.

“You don’t even know me,” she said, her voice a fragile rebellion.

Matteo leaned closer, his mouth near her ear, his breath warm against her skin. “On the contrary, Isabella. I know you better than you think.”

Her knees weakened, her resolve unraveling thread by thread. She told herself she should leave, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t.

Because part of her already knew—walking away from Matteo Ricci was no longer an option.