Chapter 8: Lines you do not cross
952 Words
Ellie stood in front of the mirror, studying her reflection with a frown.
The silk blouse clung a little too well. The skirt hugged her hips in a way that felt like a statement. Her damp hair curled around her collarbone, soft and unruly. She looked like herself—and like someone else entirely.
But maybe that was the point.
She wasn’t trying to seduce him. She wasn’t stupid. Salvador Sinclair was a shark in a suit, a man who ate people alive before breakfast.
But he had rattled her. Badly.
And that irritated the hell out of her.
She didn’t want to be the girl who flinched when he entered a room. She wanted to be the girl who made him feel something. Even if it was just annoyance. Even if it was just for a moment.
⸻
When she brought his coffee to the sunroom, he was already seated—legs crossed, tablet in hand, looking like he owned the world and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of it.
He barely looked up when she entered.
“You’re late,” he said without inflection.
“Only by a minute.” Ellie set the tray down beside him, letting her hand brush the polished wood of the table. “But I’m sure someone like you is used to women being… prompt.”
That got his attention.
His eyes flicked up, slow and deliberate, pinning her where she stood.
She smiled—too sweet.
He didn’t return it.
But she didn’t miss the way his gaze dipped lower than it should have before he looked away.
“Try not to spill it this time,” he muttered, returning to the screen in front of him.
She poured the coffee with the quiet grace of someone determined to look unfazed. She leaned closer than necessary as she set the cup down, her fingers brushing his.
Warm. Firm. Still as stone.
No reaction.
But the smallest flicker of tension coiled in the corner of his jaw.
Ellie left the room smiling.
⸻
At dinner, she upped the game.
She wore a black dress from the guest closet—nothing outrageous, just simple and sleek. She passed behind him when serving the wine, letting her hand graze the back of his shoulder.
This time, she saw it.
A pause.
A shallow breath.
A glance sideways that came a half second too late.
She didn’t say anything.
Didn’t need to.
She was getting to him.
And God, it felt good.
Maybe it was childish. Maybe it was dangerous. But after days of being locked in a golden cage, stripped of control, treated like some fragile object—this felt like reclaiming a piece of herself.
Power.
Even if it was fake.
Even if it was borrowed.
⸻
Later that night, she took a walk through the garden to cool off. The wind kissed her skin. The stars looked too calm for the mess in her head.
She was heading back to her room when she heard voices—low and sharp, echoing from the far corridor.
She shouldn’t have followed.
But curiosity had always been her worst trait.
Ellie crept down the hallway and stopped beside a partially opened door. Her heart picked up speed.
Inside, Salvador stood stiffly, facing a man she didn’t recognize—tall, tan, with slicked-back hair and a permanent sneer.
“I told you to handle it discreetly,” Salvador said, voice low and lethal.
The other man laughed. “And I told you I don’t take orders from you.”
Something in Salvador’s stance shifted.
Ellie knew that shift.
She’d seen it in the kitchen, in the way he moved when annoyed—but this wasn’t mild irritation.
This was something darker.
Before the man could blink, Salvador slammed him into the wall. The crash made Ellie jump.
The air changed. Thick. Charged. Frightening.
The man struggled, cursing, but Salvador didn’t flinch.
His hand closed around the man’s throat, pressing just hard enough to make his face turn red. His voice, when he spoke, was cold enough to freeze the air.
“You don’t take orders?” he said. “Let me fix that for you.”
The man choked, fingers clawing weakly at Salvador’s wrist.
Ellie couldn’t breathe.
She backed away slowly, her heartbeat thunderous in her ears.
He hadn’t yelled.
He hadn’t lost control.
He’d barely raised his voice.
And yet he had looked completely, terrifyingly at home with his hand around someone’s neck.
She turned and ran.
⸻
She didn’t stop until she was in her room with the door locked.
She paced for what felt like hours.
Trying to erase what she’d seen.
Trying to make sense of the man who had stood in her bathroom that morning, dismissing her with cold indifference—and then stood in that hallway tonight, violence pulsing beneath his skin like it was second nature.
She had touched him.
Played with him.
Tried to tease him.
She had no idea what she was doing.
Ellie stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her skin was flushed again, but not from heat. Not from attraction.
From fear.
Not that he’d hurt her—no. She still didn’t think he would.
But now she wasn’t so sure of anything.
She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled the sheets around her, and stared at the door like it might swing open any second.
She wasn’t safe.
Not really.
And no matter how calm he sounded… Salvador Sinclair was dangerous.
She whispered into the silence, like a vow to herself.
“I need to get out of here.”
Before she forgot who she was.
Before it was too late.
- Writer
