Chapter 2: The Feisty One
1290 Words
“Ah, there he is,” Don Gregorio declared, rising slowly from his seat like a man accepting a crown. “My son finally decides to grace us with his presence.”
Silver stepped onto the terrace without a word, ignoring the servants arranging the table, ignoring the way the garden lights were perfectly placed to flatter the woman’s skin beside his father. Allyna.
She stood as well, composed, hands folded in front of her. She looked at him directly.
Most people didn’t.
“Silver Vladimir,” Gregorio said, voice rich with pride he didn’t mean. “Meet Allyna. My future wife.”
The words hit like a slap wrapped in velvet.
Silver’s expression didn’t change. Not visibly. But something in his eyes shifted—something sharp, almost primal.
Allyna extended a hand.
“Mr. de Silva,” she said, her voice polite, lilting. “It’s a pleasure.”
He didn’t take her hand. He let the silence stretch just long enough for discomfort to settle like smoke between them.
Then: “How old are you?”
“Old enough,” she replied sweetly, not lowering her hand.
His mouth curved, slow and cold. “Drop the act, darling. You don’t have to impress me. I’m not the one signing the checks.”
Gregorio coughed sharply. “Silver.”
“No, no,” Allyna said gently, withdrawing her hand. “He’s just curious. I’d be curious too, if my father announced he was marrying someone with better skin and better taste.”
Silver’s eyebrow twitched.
Gregorio laughed, delighted. “Isn’t she something?”
Yes. She was something, all right.
Something dangerous.
Something calculated.
Something he wanted to drag into a locked room and ruin until she stopped smiling like she had the upper hand.
“Sit,” Gregorio commanded.
Silver sat. Slowly. Never taking his eyes off her.
The table was set for three—because of course it was. Gregorio never anticipated disobedience. He assumed submission the way most men assumed air.
They ate. Sort of.
Gregorio did most of the talking. Boasting about his latest acquisition, some real estate venture in Madrid. Silver nodded, made the occasional sarcastic comment. Allyna said little, but when she did speak, it was with an ease that grated on him.
She wasn’t intimidated.
She wasn’t nervous.
She didn’t care.
And that—that—got under his skin more than anything.
She laughed once—at something Gregorio said—and Silver almost flinched. It was light and warm and real. The kind of laugh that belonged in a different life, not at a de Silva table.
He hated it.
After dessert, Gregorio stood to take a call—some investor from Dubai or Singapore, always a call at dinner, always a reminder of what really mattered.
The moment he was gone, Silver leaned back, wine glass in hand.
“So. What’s your price?”
Allyna dabbed the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t be coy. Everyone has one. The car? The house? A little monthly allowance until he croaks?”
She tilted her head. “And what’s yours, Mr. de Silva? Or is your inheritance just a bonus prize for pretending to like your father?”
He grinned. It was sharp, animalistic. “You’re clever. That’s cute. But let me give you some free advice, sweetheart—Don Gregorio doesn’t marry women. He collects them.”
“I’m not here to be collected,” she said quietly.
He leaned forward. “No. You’re here to cash out.”
A flash of something passed through her expression. Not guilt. Not fear. Something colder. Acceptance.“Yes,” she said. Simply. Clearly. “I am.”
Silver didn’t speak for a second. He didn’t have to. The silence was thick with judgment.
“You said it,” he murmured. “Not me.”
She stood, brushing imaginary lint from her dress. “You wanted honesty. Don’t act offended now that you got it.”
She turned to leave.
He didn’t stop her.
But he watched her walk away like a hunter watches prey that wandered too close to the trap—and didn't even know it.
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The hallway lights cast long shadows as Silver moved like a panther down the west corridor, past the study, past the trophy room his father used as an ego shrine. The house had gone quiet. Don Gregorio was locked away in his office, speaking in low, booming tones to some government contact—or mistress, more likely.
Silver had watched Allyna slip away minutes ago.
She wasn’t stupid. She probably thought she could hide behind marble walls and silk curtains.
But Silver Vladimir de Silva had grown up in this house.
He knew every corridor, every shortcut. He knew how to follow without being heard, how to hunt without moving too fast.
And he knew exactly where she’d go: the jasmine veranda. It overlooked the east garden—quiet, semi-private. His father took his flings there when he wanted to impress them with moonlight and money.
Silver hated that veranda.
And yet…
He found her there, standing by the balustrade, arms folded, gazing out into the dark like she belonged in it.
He didn’t speak right away.
He leaned against the doorway, letting his presence settle over her like a second skin. She stiffened slightly, then relaxed—too quickly. She knew who it was.
“You know,” he said, voice low, deliberate, “most women at least wait a few weeks before admitting they’re after the money.”
Allyna didn’t turn around.
“I’m not most women,” she replied.
He stepped closer. Slowly. Deliberately.
“No,” he said. “You’re not.”
She finally turned her head to look at him. The moonlight hit her face, and Silver’s breath hitched for half a second. Not from emotion. Not from weakness.
Just lust.
Pure. Undeniable. Dangerous.
She crossed her arms. “So what do you want, Mr. de Silva? A confession? An apology? A resignation letter?”
“I want to understand,” he said softly, taking another step. “Why my father, of all people? Was it the house? The title? The fantasy of
being his final conquest?”
Her jaw tightened.
“Believe it or not,” she said, “some of us don’t chase romance. Some of us survive.”
“By selling yourself?”
She turned fully toward him, eyes burning. “By making choices men like you don’t have to.”
That hit.
Harder than he expected.
But he didn’t let it show.
Instead, he smiled. A cruel, slow smile that never reached his eyes.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Allyna. I’ve seen dozens like you. Polite. Pretty. Willing to suck a dying man’s ego for a slice of his empire.”
“And what about you?” she asked, stepping forward. “You’re sitting on the throne already. What do you do? Break women for sport? Or is that just a perk?”
He laughed once. It was a cold sound.
“I don’t break women,” he said, voice dipped in poison. “They break themselves trying to fix me.”
Allyna blinked, caught off guard.
He took one final step—too close now, chest almost touching hers. His eyes bored into her like scalpels.
“Let me give you a warning,” he whispered. “You don’t belong here. You’re not ready for this world.”
Her chin rose. “I’m not scared of you, Silver.”
“You should be.”
Silence bloomed between them, thick with heat and loathing.
He looked down at her mouth. Just for a moment.
Then turned away.
TO BE CONTINUED
- Writer
