CHAPTER THREE

TREVOR 

Camilla Tate.

Not only did she meet my expectations, she surpassed them by a milestone. I try to keep my eyes on her face only not to appear rude, but I can't help myself from looking at her every curve and drinking it all in.

What's truly fascinating is that she's not a pushover; it adds a thrilling edge to our interaction.

"What if I want to be in your personal space?" I smirk, leaning in slightly closer.

"Get. Out," she enunciates, her fingers poking at my chest assertively.

"Ah, a woman with some fire. That is refreshing. You ladies are usually so docile and obedient,"

I retort, my ego getting the best of me.

I can't help but roll my eyes at my own foolish remark. Why did I say that out loud? Wait, why do I even care?

"Who the hell are you? And why do you think your opinion on women holds water?" she demands, her irritation palpable.

"Oh, I am sorry. Forgive my manners," I say, extending my hand. "The name is Trevor Hamilton, your soon-to-be husband."

She gives me a withering look, her gaze sweeping from my head to my toes. "Of course you are. Just my luck to have been engaged to the most egotistic, misogynistic man on Earth."

"Aw, come on. I'm also good at other things," I reply in a low, suggestive tone.

"Save that move; it won't work on me," she retorts, oozing confidence.

"Alright, challenge accepted, Princess."

I take yet another step forward, closing the distance between us. My fingers trace up and down her arm, causing goosebumps to rise in their wake. I bring my lips close to her neck as if I'm about to kiss her, and I sense her tilting her head to give me room to continue. But at the last moment, I veer away and whisper in her ear.

"Told you I'm good at other things, Princess," I tease, chuckling softly as I move a strand of hair away from her face.

"Jerk! Get the hell away from me," she shouts, pushing me back with the last of her strength.

The tension between us is palpable, and a knowing grin tugs at my lips. This engagement might just turn out to be more interesting than I expected.

Certainly, here's a revised version with some added sensuality and heightened emotions: I watch her chest heaving; it's unclear whether it's from her arousal or anger. Either way, it accentuates her curves.

Damn.

This woman is driving me insane, and she has no clue. I begin tracing kisses from her biceps to her shoulder, moving gently to her neck. This time, my touch is more sincere, more tender. Soft moans escape her lips as I nibble on her delicate skin.

My fingers trail down her thigh, inching closer to her core. She slowly parts her legs as I draw nearer and nearer, the anticipation building until…

Ggrrrhhhh…

My phone rings, and just like that, we're thrust back into reality. It couldn't have been a worse time for someone to call.

I fish my phone from my pocket, realizing it's one of my conquests. Not just any conquest, though; she's the one who's somehow forced her way into my life. She's a crazy bitch, capable of wreaking havoc with a single phone call.

"What do you want?" I reply tersely.

"What? No enthusiasm to talk to me?" The she-devil purrs, dripping with sarcasm.

"I'm busy. Spit it out."

"I'll take what I can get. I miss you, Trev," she says with a seductive tone that disgusts me.

"Look, I don't have time for this nonsense. I have an important meeting to attend," I snap, ending the call and powering off my phone.

"Now, where were we?" I make an attempt to continue, but I barely get started before she pushes me away.

"Get away from me. Did you think I'd let you touch me after the stunt you just pulled?" She yells, her anger palpable.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Princess. Did it bother you? Well, it shouldn't, considering I just met you today, don't you think?"

"I'm supposed to be marrying you in a matter of weeks. This is literally our engagement party."

I shrug nonchalantly. "Eh, so what?"

I don't mean to hurt her, but she shouldn't be so worked up over a phone call; it was harmless.

What matters is that I'm with her now, and I crave her touch, her taste. Why is she being so difficult?

"Of all the people I could be forcefully engaged to, why you? You're the last person I'd normally care for," she retorts, crossing a line.

"You should count yourself lucky to be engaged to me. You're not my type either," I respond, intending to hurt her as her words hurt me.

And I do.

"You really are a jerk," she mutters before storming off.

CAMILLA

That insufferable jerk, the bane of my existence. I can't believe how much I despise him, but even worse, I can't deny how my body betrayed me in his presence.

Damn my stupid, treacherous body.

I walk briskly, trying to put as much distance as possible between us. I never want to lay eyes on him again, not just because of the intense embarrassment I'm feeling.

My mind is so lost in these thoughts that I don't notice I've wandered into the parking lot near the house's exit. It only registers when I hear my dad's business partner call my name.

"Camilla, there you are, honey. I've been searching everywhere for you since I last saw you," he says, wearing a knowing smile.

"Why's that?" I ask, not bothering to hide the contempt in my voice. I'm so far from the mood for propriety right now.

"You know, I like ladies like you. Strong-willed, with no manners. They always think they can conquer the world until the harsh reality of life reminds them that men will always be the dominant species. I should've made you my wife; breaking your spirit would have been most satisfying."

What the hell? It's not what he said that's the worst part; it's the gleam in his eyes, the fascination he exudes.

He's a sick, deranged, old bastard, and I can't hold back my disgust. "You're a sick, deranged, old bastard," I tell him calmly, a twisted smile on my face. I know I've provoked him.

He starts moving closer, eyes fixed on me like a predator eyeing its next meal. The look in his eyes turns my stomach, and I glance around for an escape route. But I'm trapped between two cars, and luck isn't on my side.

"I may be sick, but I'm not spineless, to you. Women like you need to be put in their place," he hisses, almost foaming at the mouth.

Out of nowhere, Mr. Hamilton appears, his voice cutting through the tension. "I think you should leave her for me to deal with as I see fit."

"No, can't do. I have to teach her a lesson myself," Mr. Luca retorts.

"You'll do no such thing, Luca. That would be a disrespect to me," Mr. Hamilton asserts.

Mr. Luca stands there, chest heaving heavily. He spits, and from the proximity, it seems he intended it for me but miscalculated. My eyes remain locked on the spit's proximity, so I fail to notice that Mr. Hamilton has drawn closer, delivering a swift, jaw-shifting blow to Mr. Luca.

"I told you that would be a disrespect," Mr. Hamilton mutters, casually wiping his knuckles on Mr. Luca's shirt.

"We have some guests waiting to see us," he adds, barely sparing me a glance, then turns and continues toward the dinner party.

The whole confrontation was just about his ego, nothing more. I adjust my composure and follow suit.