Beauty, Red-handed
1439 Words
Ivanna’s POV
I’ve always said power is best when you can taste it— sweat-slick, slow, groaning beneath you.
Hugh Whitmore wasn’t some docile heir in tailored silk. No. He was still all muscle and command. A man who built empires with blood in his teeth. And tonight, he was under me. His back arched up the bed, hands gripping my thighs like I was both worship and war.
The air was thick, bourbon on his tongue, my perfume clashing with the salt of his skin. The smack of flesh meeting flesh filled the room, each roll of my hips drawing a ragged groan from his throat. His fingers dug into me, blunt and possessive, but I rode him harder, letting him feel the bite of my nails on his chest.
I moved over him like a storm, hips rolling to a rhythm only I knew, head tossed back as his mouth traced fire along my chest. “You’re mine,” I whispered against his ear, breathless but smug. He growled, low and feral, yanked my hair, just enough to sting. I laughed, breath catching as his teeth found my collarbone. Good, I didn’t want a lamb. I wanted the lion, the one who still thought he could dominate me even as his hips jerked up, desperate for more.
We devoured each other. Biting, gasping, his fingers bruising my hips as I rode him deeper, slower. Velvet curtains fluttered around us. The scent of bourbon and sweat coated the room. His voice was low, ruined, whispering my name like a vow and a curse.
The bedframe thudded against the wall in time with us. The silk sheets were tangled, damp with sweat, and somewhere in the haze, I heard the clink of his wedding band hitting the nightstand, discarded and forgotten. His wife was dead but I was here, alive, and taking everything she’d left behind.
“Blether,” he breathed in Scots. “f**k, Ivanna.”
"Say it again," I commanded, biting his lip until he hissed. "And then sign."
Because beside the bed, my contract waited. Ink fresh. Vettores was mine, yes, but I needed more — reach, security, global clout. Hugh had that. Not just wealth, but legacy. The kind of signature that opened doors before they were knocked on.
I slowed my movements, drawing out each drag of my body against his, watching his pupils blow wider. "You want to come?" I purred. "Then pick it up."
He grabbed the pen with fingers still trembling from pleasure, chest rising with the aftershocks I’d carved into him.The scratch of ink on paper was obscene in the quiet, his signature bleeding onto the page while his other hand still clutched my hip, fingers pressing bruises into my skin.
"What exactly am I investing in?" he asked, voice rough.
I climbed off him slowly, letting him feel the loss, the cool air hitting where our bodies had been fused. My bare feet touched the carpet, and I stretched, languid as a panther, before grabbing the Vettores lookbook.
"In the future," I said, tossing it onto his chest. "In my name stitched into history. In a brand that swallows every rival whole."
He looked at me like I was that future. Like I’d already devoured the world and he was just grateful to watch.
Then he signed.
Vettores will expand. Milan bowed already. Seoul follows. Dubai is interested. And now, with Hugh’s name behind mine, every boardroom on earth will listen.
He still comes to me. When he needs release. When grief tightens its claws, I make him feel alive again.
We don’t speak of marriage. Why would we? I don’t need rings. I already own more than his heart. I own his signature.
And Zaria Blake? Just a ghost in the basement of my success. She had art. I've got empire.
Let her sketch in silence.
I’ll walk red carpets in gold.
The scent of s*x still clung to the sheets, mingling with the sharper edge of ironed wool and polished leather. Morning light filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across Hugh’s spine as he sat at the edge of the bed, head bowed, jaw tight. Not a word spoken in the last seven minutes.
Perfect. Let silence rot him from the inside.
I watched him dress like it was a private show. His fingers moved mechanically—belt, cufflinks, watch—but there was a tremble in his right hand when he picked up the wedding band. He held it between two fingers, staring. I didn’t move. Just lay back on the pillows, naked and unbothered, like an artist admiring her finished masterpiece.
“You’ll stay the night,” I murmured, voice still smoky from last night.
He didn’t turn around. “Will I?”
I sat up, let the sheets fall. His shoulders stiffened. Of course they did. “You will. Because you’re not ready to go home to that tomb yet.”
The wedding band disappeared into his pocket.
Good. Let it sink. Let it corrode.
He didn’t look at me as he walked out. But he didn’t slam the door either. That was the thing with men like Hugh—they always wanted to keep the c***k open, just in case.
I slid into the back seat of my Rolls ten minutes later, Hugh’s signature already scanned and sealed. The contract rested beside me in a red leather folder, mocking the world with its finality.
My fingers tapped out a message.
To: Lucas
Flight to New York tonight. Milan first. I want the factory cleared.
Vettores pulsed with activity when I arrived. Caffeine, nerves, ambition. My empire was alive and humming.
Lucas met me with a latte and a stack of alerts. “Barneys just confirmed. They want the capsule exclusive. Vogue Italia is running a preview spread. The title is ‘Cruel Precision.’” His grin was sharp, proud. “We’re trending under #IvannaUnleashed.”
I took a long sip. Cinnamon. Exactly how I liked it.
Inside my office, the lights were dim, the moodboards glowing. On the center pedestal, a single gown—blood-red silk, cut like a scalpel—gleamed under the spotlights. One of mine. One of hers. One of ours.
I dropped the folder on my desk. “Double production. Cut Dubai out if we have to. This needs to hit harder than opium in the eighties.”
Lucas faltered. “About that…”
I turned. He knew better than to hesitate.
“There’s… some noise. One of the interns posted a t****k comparing the dress seams to Zaria’s old sketches. Early stuff. Pre-Whitmore.”
A slow smile spread across my face. “Let the children speculate. As long as we own the rights, it’s homage. Not theft.”
He swallowed. “He didn’t tag us, but the clip’s gaining traction. Fashion Twitter’s watching.”
I tapped my nails on the desk. Once. Twice. “Tell the stylists to run with it. ‘Legacy reborn.’ Make it poetic. If he wants a war, we’ll bury him in applause.”
His tablet buzzed again. “And Hugh just confirmed. Dubai’s on.”
My phone vibrated the next second.
Hugh: Dubai is confirmed.
No punctuation. No warmth. But he’d replied.
I responded with a single emoji:
👑
By midday, the garments were en route to JFK. The team prepped press kits thick enough to crush doubts. Lucas fielded calls from Condé Nast while I signed off the production lists for Milan.
I turned to the corset rack, trailing my fingers over velvet and mesh and bone. Power didn’t always roar, it slipped in under your skin, laced tight.
My phone buzzed again. Unknown caller.
I froze.
Swiped it away.
But in the security feed above my desk, I saw Hugh. In his car. Talking to someone. Smiling.
Smiling.
Not the man I left in bed.
My gaze narrowed.
Lucas returned. “Jet’s waiting. Shall I move the garment bags?”
“In a moment.” I reached for the landline. “Get me Paolo. Milan.”
A pause. Then, “On the line.”
“The Blake archive,” I said coldly. “Burn it.”
A sharp inhale from the other end. “But…”
“No discussions.” I cut in. “Erase her before the world realizes she ever mattered.
As I descended to the lobby, the building mirrored me—cold, brilliant, unflinching.
But somewhere far beneath the city, a sketchbook turned to ash. And somewhere else… a lion smiled.
The game wasn’t over. But I had the board.
And the king? Still bleeding from my kiss.
- Writer
