chapter Twenty Six

Rose Alexandria Sinclair:

“You had no reason for what you did earlier,” I snapped, my voice sharp.

Frederico’s response was immediate. Without a word, he grabbed his glass of wine and threw it in my face.

“Fuck yeah, I do,” he growled. “I owe you. I can do anything I want.” He pulled out his handkerchief, dabbing it gently against my face to wipe away the wine.

“Did that hurt, Rose?” He asked, his tone now strangely soft as he lifted my chin, his eyes searching mine.

“Stop. Please.” My voice trembled, barely more than a whisper.

“Stop? Stop what?” He leaned in, the amusement in his eyes a cruel contrast to the concern he feigned.

“Stop tormenting me, Red. Stop making me feel like this!” I shouted, my frustration boiling over. “It’s exhausting… it’s annoying!”

A dark smirk twisted across his lips as he sank into the couch, clearly enjoying the scene he’d created.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t actually care. Dance for me, slutty Rose. Show me what you’ve got,” he ordered, his voice thick with malice.

“You’re drunk!” I protested, reaching for the drink in his hand.

With a swift motion, he shoved me away, his gaze hardening as he pulled a gun from his jacket and pointed it directly at me.

“I said, dance,” he commanded, his voice icy with authority.

“Red, you’re drunk!” I repeated, my voice breaking with panic.

“No, I’m not,” he snapped, his eyes cold and unblinking. “I’m a hundred percent sober. Now dance.”

Frederico’s grip on the gun wavered as he pointed it at me, his eyes bloodshot and hazy. His words slurred, his movements uncoordinated, but there was still a dangerous edge in his presence. He was drunk, but that didn’t make him any less terrifying.

“Dance, Rose,” he slurred, his voice low and commanding. “Now.”

I stood there for a moment, staring at him. The anger in my chest burned so hot I couldn’t even think straight. But I didn’t move, not yet. I just looked at him—really looked at him.

“Red,” I said, my voice strained, “You’re drunk.”

His lips curled into a slow, sloppy smile, and he shifted in his seat, his hand gripping the gun even tighter. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his gaze clouded with something I couldn’t even place. “I said *dance.*”

I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to give in to him, but the tension in the room felt suffocating. My body moved on its own, not because I wanted it, but because I didn’t know what else to do.

I started to sway, slow at first, my hips moving in rhythm with the music, my eyes never leaving his. His stare was intense, watching every movement as I danced, but he barely reacted—just sat there.

I moved closer to him, the space between us shrinking as I leaned in, my body brushing against his. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the weight of his stare on my skin. His hand reached up, shakily brushing my hair back, and I hated that I let him touch me. But I couldn’t stop.

I didn’t want to stop.

The anger swirled inside me, mixing with the frustration and confusion. I was doing this for him, for his amusement, and the thought of it made me sick.

But I kept going.

My hands slid down his chest, slowly, deliberately. I could feel him tense under my touch, his breathing growing heavier, but his eyes never left mine. I leaned in, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that tasted of wine and something bitter. The kiss wasn’t soft, it wasn’t sweet. It was harsh, desperate, and it made everything inside me burn.

I pulled away from him, my chest rising and falling with the intensity of what I was doing. His hand reached for me again, but I stopped him, pushing him back gently with a soft but firm "no."

His gaze flickered with something—frustration, desire, I couldn’t tell—but he didn’t stop. He just looked at me, waiting for more.

“I’m not playing this game, Frederico,” I said, my voice quiet but sharp. “You’re drunk, and I’m not going to be part of this.”

He smirked, his fingers curling around the armrest as he leaned back into the couch. “Don’t act like you don’t enjoy it, Rose. You love this.”

I shook my head, but the words were too much. Too sharp. The anger inside me boiled over, and before I knew what I was doing, I slapped him hard across the face. It wasn’t a playful slap—it was a slap that came from all the anger, all the years of feeling small, insignificant, and helpless around him.

The sound of it echoed in the room, and for a moment, everything was still.

He looked up at me, his face turning slightly toward the impact, and I could see the shock in his eyes. But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he just watched me as I turned, walking away. The words caught in my throat, but I pushed them down.

"I hate you, Frederico. I really do," I spat, my voice trembling with anger and something else I couldn’t quite name. "But… damn it, I can’t undo the pain… the pleasure… and… and—"

Before I could finish, he closed the distance between us in a single, deliberate stride. His hands gripped me, firm but not rough, pulling me flush against him. Then he kissed me—not gentle, not hurried. It was slow and intense, a kiss that carried the weight of everything between us: the bitterness of old wounds and the sweetness of moments neither of us could fully let go of.

It was a kiss that tasted like chaos, like everything I wanted and everything I shouldn’t. A kiss that left me teetering on the edge of hate and surrender.

"I hate you," I murmured against his lips, even as I found myself clutching the front of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. "I hate you so much, Frederico."

"Good," he whispered back, his breath warm against my skin. "Hate me all you want, Rose. But you can’t stay away, can you?"

His hands slid up my sides, igniting a fire that clashed with the anger still burning inside me. I wanted to push him, to scream at him for everything he’d done. But my body betrayed me, responding to his touch like it had been waiting for it, craving it.

"Stop it," I managed, my voice barely a whisper. "You ruin everything, Red. You ruin me."

He smirked, that infuriating, smug expression that made me want to slap him and kiss him at the same time. "You’ve always been mine, Rose. And you hate that as much as I love it."

"You don’t love anything!" I snapped, finally shoving him back, though the space between us only made me feel colder. "You take and destroy. That’s all you know how to do."

He grabbed my wrist, pulling me back with a force that should’ve made me angrier, but instead left me breathless. His eyes bore into mine, dark and unreadable. "You’re right," he admitted, his voice low and dangerous. "I destroy. I take. And you still let me."

I stared at him, my heart pounding, my chest tight with all the things I wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for. Instead, I reached for him again, dragging him down into another kiss, desperate and furious, full of the love I didn’t want to feel and the hate I couldn’t let go of.

His hands roamed my body like he owned it, like he owned me. And maybe he did, in a way I would never admit.

But then, as quickly as the fire flared, it fizzled out. Reality hit me like a wave, and I shoved him away, harder this time.

"Stop," I choked, tears suddenly stinging my eyes. I pressed my hands to my face, trying to hold them back, but it was useless. The dam broke, and I was shaking, crying, hating myself as much as I hated him.

"I hate you, Frederico," I sobbed, my voice cracking. "I hate you so much. You make me feel like this. You make me weak, and I can’t stand it!"

He stood there, silent for once, watching me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. His hands twitched at his sides, as if he wanted to reach for me but didn’t know how.

"You ruin me," I whispered again, wiping at my tears with trembling hands. "And the worst part is, I’ll still let you."