Guilty as Sin

Chapter 2- Trouble at Paradise

Two days passed. No, Marcus Aurelius.

Or so she thought.

Cruella had almost convinced herself he’d finally taken the hint—moved on, vanished into whatever sleek, powerful world he belonged to. Because men like him? They didn’t linger after rejection.

But then, as she pushed through the café’s glass doors—exhausted from a brutal design revision meeting—something shifted. A chill swept down her spine, sharp and cold, making the fine hairs on her arms stand at attention.

Instinct.

She didn’t have to look. She already knew.

And still, her eyes flicked to the corner booth.

There he was.

Marcus Aurelius Saavedra lounged like he owned the damn place. His deep red, textured jacket hung open, framing a crisp white shirt with undone top buttons, revealing a teasing sliver of the chest. His dark gray trousers sat perfectly on his hips, cinched with a black leather belt, while polished burgundy shoes caught the café’s soft light.

Effortless. Calculated.

His dark eyes lifted. Found her. Locked on.

Cruella inhaled sharply, straightening her spine. No reaction. He didn’t deserve one. She strode to the counter, her heels clicking in sharp defiance, ordering her usual Spanish latte—iced because she needed the cold more than ever.

The chill of the cup in her hand barely cut through the heat pooling low in her stomach.

Ignore him. Walk away.

She settled into the farthest corner, phone in hand, eyes glued to the screen—but her body was hyper-aware of him. Every shift of fabric, every glance, every exhale.

Then—

“Arch. Cervantes, perfect timing,” a colleague slid a folder onto her table.

She smiled politely, diving into the project talk, grateful for the distraction. But she felt it even buried in blueprints and deadlines—his gaze, heavy and relentless.

An hour crawled by before the conversation ended, and he was still there when she finally glanced up.

But now he wasn’t alone.

A woman hovered by his table—model-esque, glossy hair, tight dress, a flirtatious lean that made Cruella’s jaw tighten. The girl’s fingers grazed Marcus’s arm, her laughter too sweet, too loud.

Good. Let him be someone else’s problem.

So why did her stomach twist in the worst way?

She took a sip of her latte, teeth clenching around the straw. “Get a grip,” she muttered.

But he was watching her—again. Not the girl. Her.

Heat flared under her skin. Screw this.

Cruella stood, gathering her things with practiced ease, every move slow, deliberate. Her heels clicked a lethal rhythm as she walked toward his table.

His gaze sharpened.

She stopped beside him, leaning in just enough for her perfume to ghost over his skin. Her hand landed on his shoulder, light but claiming.

“Love, what are you doing here?” Her voice was silk-wrapped poison.

Marcus didn’t flinch. His jaw ticked, but that was it.

The other woman gawked, her glossy lips parting in confusion. Cruella barely spared her a glance.

“Who’s this?” Cruella asked sweetly, feigning curiosity.

The girl faltered. Marcus didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Cruella let her fingers trail off his shoulder before straightening. “Didn’t think this was your type.”

Her smile was pure venom as she walked away, her Spanish latte cold but her blood boiling. She didn’t have to look back to know he was watching.

But she barely made it ten steps before—

“Ella.”

Her pulse spiked. She hated that it did.

Then he was there, somehow in front of her, cutting off her escape. His scent—clean, expensive, threaded with something darker—wrapped around her like a trap.

“Let me drive you home,” he said, voice low, dangerous.

She raised a brow. “Suddenly, the gentleman?”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m always the gentleman.”

“Debatable.”

His smile was slow, predatory. “Get in the car, Ella.”

The warning in his tone sent a thrill down her spine. Against her better judgment, she let him lead her to his car—a sleek black thing that matched the danger in his eyes.

Inside, the tension thickened.

“You’re tense,” he said, starting the engine.

“No s**t, Saavedra.”

He chuckled, deep and knowing. “You like playing games but hate when someone plays them better.”

She turned to glare at him. “In your dreams.”

His hand shot out, gripping her chin, not hard, but enough to make her breath hitch.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “you’re already losing.”

Her heart raced—annoyance, attraction, it was all tangled now. She jerked away, shoving at his chest. “Drive, Marcus.”

But his smug smirk lingered long after they pulled away from the curb, the city lights flickering over his sharp features.

And worst of all?

She wasn’t sure if she hated it.