Ruin Me Gently

Chapter 10

- Hazel-

The Brinchfort name was beginning to rot from the inside out.

I could see it in the headlines—whispers of embezzlement, broken contracts, betrayal within the board. But that wasn't the part I savored. It was the subtle panic in London's eyes that fed me most.

He hadn't said much since the photo leak, not directly. But something had shifted. That untouchable coolness he wore like armor had started to crack.

The silence in his penthouse was thick, tense. He poured me a drink, fingers taut around the glass. I leaned against the far end of the kitchen island.

"You haven't asked about the picture," I said softly.

London didn't look up. "What's there to ask?"

"It's your life. Falling apart.Your family. They're spiraling."

Now he looked at me, and the weight of his stare landed like a blow.

"My life's been spiraling long before that photo," he said, voice low. "You just lit the match."

I exhaled, steady. "So light a new one. Burn something else down."

There it was again—this dangerous rhythm we danced to. His devastation. My temptation. He moved slowly toward me, setting the drink down as he approached.

"I should hate you," he murmured.

I tilted my chin up. "You do."

"But I still want you."

He was so close now. The space between us could've fit a lie, maybe two. Not the truth. Not what I was hiding.

"Is this what we're doing now?" I asked. "Dancing around our destruction like it's foreplay?"

London's mouth barely twitched. "I'm trying to figure out who the hell you are."

I didn't flinch.

"You already know," I said. "You just don't want to admit it."

Hours later, I slipped into my heels in front of the mirror, brushing soft waves into my hair, watching myself transform again. The press conference was scheduled for noon. The Brinchfort Foundation would be addressing "concerns about internal mismanagement." I already knew what the spokesperson would say. Lies, wrapped in silk.

I had other plans.

"Sable—"

London appeared in the doorway. Still shirtless, jaw tense. "My mother wants to meet you again."

I stilled. Slowly set the brush down.

"Oh?" I said, carefully.

"She doesn't even know who I am, besides the last dinner I had with your family didn't go so well."

London studied me. "Neither do I."

Our eyes locked in the mirror.

"Do you really want to find out?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

*****

The Brinchfort estate was sick with secrets.

Celeste Brinchfort greeted me like a queen, glass of champagne in hand, smile like a blade.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you," she purred, eyes raking over my dress. "My apologies for the incident in my home. It was harmless."

"So who are you to my son now, huh?"

I smiled easily. "Whoever you want me to be."

Celeste's brow lifted slightly. "Dangerous answer."

"I give dangerous answers to dangerous people."

London was stiff beside me, his father pacing nearby, on the phone, muttering about lawyers and leaks. The walls felt too thin for the weight of what was crumbling behind them.

I leaned in toward Celeste. "You should be more careful with the skeletons in your family closet. Some of them still have teeth."

Celeste's gaze sharpened. But before she could speak, London took my hand, leading me away.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, voice low as we passed into the library.

"Playing your game," I replied. "Winning."

He slammed the door shut behind us. "No. You're burning it all down."

I stepped toward him, slowly. "Isn't that what you wanted? For something real to come out of all this?"

London looked at me like he could see it now. The edges. The outline. The woman he remembered… and the weapon I'd become.

"Tell me your name," he said.

I blinked.

"Lena," I said, cautious.

"No. Your real name."

The air cracked between us.

I stepped back. "That's not how this works."

"Then what is this?" His voice broke. "Because I can't stop thinking about you, and I don't even know who the hell you are."

"You don't get to demand answers from a question you created."

London's eyes burned into mine, not just with suspicion—but with need. With heat. With something bruised and wild that hadn't been there before.

"Lena," he murmured, voice low, almost desperate.

I didn't back away. Didn't blink.

"Don't say my name like that unless you plan to do something about it," I said, breath catching.

And then he did.

London moved like gravity had snapped—closing the space between us in one breathless stride. One hand tangled in the nape of my neck, the other gripping my waist like he was anchoring himself to the only thing not falling apart.

His mouth crashed into mine—hot, hungry, and laced with fury. There was no slow build, no gentle testing. Just raw, reckless heat.

My back hit the bookshelf, hard. I gasped into him, and he swallowed it like a promise. His tongue slid against mine, slick and demanding, teeth grazing my lower lip until I moaned—soft and unguarded.

London growled low in his throat and deepened the kiss, devouring me like he'd starved for years. His hand moved from my waist to my thigh, hiking my leg up around his hip. I tightened it there, arching into him with a gasp, my fingers clawing at his shoulders through his shirt.

I tugged it upward, dragging my nails down his back as he pressed harder, grinding against me through the fabric of my dress. Every inch of him was heat and tension, muscle and need.

He kissed like he hated me for making him want me. Like kissing me was both punishment and reward.

"You drive me insane," he muttered between breaths, lips trailing down my jaw, biting lightly at the pulse in my throat.

"Then lose your mind," I whispered, voice rough and needy.

He bit my collarbone, soothing it with his tongue, and I gasped again, nails digging in. My body was already on fire, and we hadn't even made it to the bed. Or the floor. Or anywhere sanity could exist.

I wrapped both arms around his neck and pulled him back into my mouth—this time, slower. Deeper. More dangerous.

Our bodies pressed flush, friction feeding the ache.

This wasn't foreplay. This was war with no rules.

I didn't even realize I was shaking until he stilled, forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing like we'd just come up from drowning.

His voice broke the silence. "Tell me who the hell you are."

I swallowed the words I wanted to say. The truth.

Instead, I licked my lips—still tasting him—and smiled darkly.

"You already know."