CHAPTER 15:- A WHISPER OF DESIRE

The opulent room, usually a haven of pleasure, felt suffocating tonight. Mr. Green, clad only in a silk robe that barely veiled his frustration, stood before the massive portrait on the far wall. It depicted him and his brother, both younger, both impeccably dressed in crisp white suits, their smiles wide and genuine. A pang of bitter nostalgia stabbed at him. Today's council meeting had been a brutal dance of power, and Mr. Green had been left feeling like a clumsy beginner stumbling on the intricate steps.

A soft voice, laced with concern, broke the silence. "Is everything alright, darling?"

Mr. Green turned to find his latest conquest, a stunning blonde named Tiffany, perched precariously on the edge of the king-sized bed. The crimson sheets, usually a symbol of their shared pleasures, now seemed to mock him.

"None of your concern," he snapped, his voice rougher than he intended. Tiffany, usually unflappable, flinched at the harsh tone. Nevertheless, she rose gracefully, her silk nightgown clinging to her curves.

"Perhaps a change of topic?" she suggested, attempting a smile. "I was discussing my new film with the producers. They seem… unenthused by the director's vision. Such a shame," she pouted, her voice adopting a theatrical air.

Mr. Green remained silent, his gaze fixed on the portrait. He knew the reality behind Tiffany's artistic woes. The director's vision wasn't the problem. The problem was the exorbitant budget, a budget inflated by Tiffany's lavish demands and the director's desperate attempts to placate her.

Tiffany, sensing his inattentiveness, glided closer, her movements calculated. Her fingers brushed against his arm, a silent plea for attention. Mr. Green sighed, the tension in his shoulders palpable.

"A blank check will be delivered to your office tomorrow," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Fill it out yourself."

A flicker of triumph crossed Tiffany's face, quickly replaced by a practiced display of gratitude. She leaned in, her perfume a cloying presence, and began to massage his shoulders, her touch calculated to soothe.

"Wonderful, darling," she purred. "This will truly be a masterpiece."

Mr. Green swallowed back a wave of disgust. Her touch, previously a source of pleasure, now felt cold and plastic. He realized, with a jolt, that was how he saw her now – a beautiful, manipulative doll.

"Don't call me darling," he growled, pushing her away. "And don't think this is anything more than what it is – a transaction."

Tiffany's smile faltered, replaced by a mask of shock. She stumbled back, her eyes wide.

Mr. Green rose from the armchair, his robe falling open to reveal the fury coursing through him. He grabbed the half-empty glass of red wine from the bedside table, the crystal glinting mockingly in the dim light.

"Out," he spat, his voice laced with venom. "Now."

Tiffany, her composure shattered, stammered. Tears welled up in her eyes, but Mr. Green was past caring. He raised the glass high, then slammed it down on the marble floor. The crystal shattered into a million pieces, the sharp sound echoing in the vast room.

"Get out!" he roared, the sound raw and primal.

Tiffany, her mascara running, scurried past him, her expensive heels clicking frantically on the marble floor. As the door slammed shut behind her, Mr. Green sank back into the armchair, the silence pressing in on him like a physical weight. He looked at the shattered glass on the floor, a metaphor for his own state of disarray. Tonight, he wasn't the powerful Mr. Green, CEO of a media empire. He was just a lonely man, drowning in a sea of

hatred.

•~•

Moonlight, a spectral visitor, draped itself across the opulent chamber, tracing silver lines on the untouched food tray beside Amelia's bed. The remnants of the meal lay like fallen soldiers on a forgotten battlefield, a testament to the war raging within her. A book, its title a cruel jest – "The Unwanted Love" – lay open in her hand, its words echoing the tempestuous symphony in her soul. Was this to be her destiny? An unwanted affection, a mere pawn in a game whose rules remained shrouded in shadow?

A sharp click shattered the silence, making Amelia jump. Her head snapped towards the door, heart thundering against her ribs. It flung open with a bang, revealing Lorenze standing on the threshold. Unlike his usual composed demeanor, his face was a thundercloud, his tie askew, the top buttons of his shirt strained against his chest.

Amelia scrambled to sit up, the crisp white sheets clinging to her trembling form. Fear, a cold, unwelcome serpent, coiled itself around her heart. Her voice trembled as she managed a hesitant, "L-Lorenze?"

He stormed into the room, the heavy oak door slamming shut behind him with a finality that made Amelia flinch. He didn't spare her a glance, his scowl aimed at a spot beyond her shoulder. The air crackled with unspoken tension, charged with the unspoken defiance of the day.

Amelia swallowed, her throat dry. "Is everything alright?" The question was laced with more accusation than concern.

Lorenze seemed not to hear her. He strode purposefully across the room, each step heavy and deliberate. He reached the window and flung it open violently, the cool night air rushing in, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant rain. He stood there, his back rigid, a tempest brewing within him.

Amelia's gaze darted around the room, finally landing on the discarded book beside her. A flicker of defiance sparked in her eyes. "So, you brought me here against my will, and now you're upset because I wouldn't meet your… associate?" Her voice held a dangerous edge.

Lorenze swiveled around, his eyes burning with a dark anger. "Associate? He's not some underling, Amelia. Mr. Clifford....he's the only family I have left, someone I can count on!"

Amelia's retort hung heavy in the air, a silent accusation that sliced through Lorenze's carefully constructed facade. "Family?" she echoed, a cruel edge to her voice. "Is this some twisted loyalty test, Lorenze? Because if so, consider me a resounding failure."

Her words were a slap, and Lorenze's carefully controlled anger flared. He took a menacing step closer, the air crackling with the intensity of his unspoken desire. "This isn't a test, Amelia," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "This is about survival. You're here because you have nowhere else to go."

Amelia met his gaze defiantly. "And who decided that?" she challenged, her voice laced with a dangerous quiet. "Was it you, or your precious… associate?" The way she spat the last word made it clear she saw Mr. Clifford as nothing more than another cog in Lorenze's manipulative machine.

Lorenze's jaw clenched. The truth, the ugly truth, was starting to bubble to the surface. He hadn't brought her here just for her safety, no matter how he'd tried to convince himself otherwise. He craved control, a possession he could claim as his own. An icy realization washed over him – he wanted to keep her here, forever.

"Yes, Amelia," he admitted, his voice a harsh rasp. "You're here because I need you. Here, with me." He paused, the words catching in his throat. "As my…" He hesitated, searching for the right term, the one that truly reflected his possessive desire.

"Your… servant?" Amelia supplied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Another pretty face to grace your opulent home? Is that supposed to be some grand prize?"

He slammed his fist against the wall beside her, the sudden crack echoing in the vast room. "No! Damn it, Amelia, don't twist this!" Shame burned hot in his chest, battling with the possessive urge that had taken root within him.

"Then what is it, Lorenze?" she demanded, her voice trembling not with fear, but with a burgeoning hatred. "Tell me the truth for once!"

Lorenze stared at her, the raw emotion in her eyes both terrifying and strangely captivating. He took a deep breath, the air tasting stale in his mouth. "You'll be my wife, Amelia," he finally blurted out, the words heavy with a possessiveness he couldn't deny. "You'll bear my children, and we'll rule together."

The room fell silent, the weight of his declaration hanging heavy between them. Amelia stared at him, her face a canvas of conflicting emotions. Hatred flickered in her eyes, a fierce blaze fueled by his arrogance and blatant disregard for her wishes. But there was something else too, a flicker of something akin to confusion. Did he truly believe she would bend to his will, become a mere pawn in his power game?

A cold smile played on her lips, devoid of warmth or humor. "And what makes you think I'll agree to such… generosity?" she asked, her voice laced with a dangerous sweetness.

Lorenze closed the distance between them in a heartbeat. His cologne, a mix of spice and leather, mingled with the sharp tang of wine, hit Amelia full force. It was a heady combination, both intoxicating and repulsive. He towered over her, his shadow engulfing her like a physical threat. He reached out, a single finger tilting her chin upwards, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"We will see, Miss Harris," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine, a mixture of fear and something akin to disgust. Her eyes narrowed, her defiance unwavering. He held her gaze for a beat longer, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, his gaze flickered to the discarded book by her bedside. A flicker of something, amusement perhaps, crossed his face.

"A nice book, isn't it," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost… playful? But the amusement didn't reach his eyes. It was a fleeting moment, a glimpse into a part of Lorenze she hadn't seen before. Before he could unravel it further, he turned and strode out of the room, leaving Amelia alone with the echo of his words and a storm of conflicting emotions churning within her.