Her Cruel Empire: A Dark Sapphic Mafia Romance, page 16
“The business,” she supplies.
“Yeah. So…don’t you ever think about leaving it behind?”
Eva’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth. For a moment, she looks almost worried, like she’s considering whether to answer honestly or deflect. “Sometimes,” she admits finally. “But I’ve always known that a normal life is not for me.”
“A normal life?” I lean forward, ignoring the way Leon’s attention sharpens at my movement. “Eva, I’m just talking about happiness. About love. You deserve them as much as anyone.”
Eva’s eyes drop to her salad and she doesn’t reply. And that alone makes me ache with pity for her. She might be a beautiful, powerful, hedonistic billionaire…but she clearly has a huge hole inside her that can’t be filled up, no matter how much she owns.
I might be poor, and I might have to work shitty jobs and choose between having electricity or food some months, but with my siblings, there’s always happiness. There’s always love.
Eva doesn’t seem to have that. And even those she loves the most, like Stefan and Dimi, and even Leon—she still doesn’t trust them enough to really let them in and see the real her.
The thought just about breaks my heart.
When we return to the hotel to rest before dinner—we have exclusive reservations at yet another Michelin-starred restaurant—I gasp at the sight waiting for me. A row of stunning gowns hangs in the suite like a rainbow of silk and velvet and lace. Deep emerald green, midnight blue, champagne gold, ruby red—colors that would make a sunset jealous.
“Eva,” I breathe, running my fingers over the fabrics. “These are gorgeous. But when would I ever wear them?”
“Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever you want.” She settles into an armchair, watching me with obvious satisfaction. “I thought you might enjoy having choices.”
I pull out a midnight blue number that feels like liquid silk between my fingers. “I’ve never worn anything like this in my life.”
“Try it on.”
I disappear into the bathroom, struggling with the tiny buttons and hidden zippers. When I emerge, Eva’s expression shifts into something hungry and appreciative. The dress fits perfectly, in turns hugging me and flattering me where it should, and flowing like water when I move.
I twirl in front of the mirror, laughing at my own reflection. “I look like someone else entirely.”
“You look like yourself,” Eva says, rising from her chair. “Just…more.” She steps behind me, her hands settling on my waist as she meets my gaze in the mirror. “Your joy is infectious.”
I lean back against her, feeling the solid warmth of her body. “You’re smiling,” I tease, watching her reflection. “Actually smiling.”
“Sometimes I do. Don’t tell anyone.”
Before I can respond, she turns me in her arms and kisses me deeply, her mouth warm and demanding against mine. I melt into her, my hands fisting in her blouse as she pulls me closer.
We fall back onto the bed together, kissing lazily, giving up halfway so that our clothes are still half-on. When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, I trace my fingers along her cheekbone. “Eva?”
“Mm?”
“Thank you. For today. For...this.” I gesture at the gowns, the luxury, the impossible beauty of it all. “I know this isn’t real—I know I’m just here for thirty days. But this still means everything to me.”
Something flickers across her face—too quick for me to read.
“I know,” I say quickly, before she can remind me of the terms of our arrangement. “I know what this is.”
But even as I say it, I’m not sure I believe it anymore. The way she looked at me on the Eiffel Tower, the way she chose me over her empire today, the way she’s holding me now like she never wants to let me go—none of it feels temporary.
I was supposed to be hers for thirty days. But I’m starting to wish it could be forever. I have no idea how it would work. But if there’s one thing I definitely know about Eva Novak, she can make anything happen.
She could remake the whole world with the flick of a finger.
And as those fingers of hers trace lazy patterns on my bare shoulder and the Paris skyline glitters beyond our window, I’m filled with a hope so fierce it takes my breath away.
Chapter 23
Eva
Iwake suddenly, from deep sleep to awareness, and find Robin curled into me in my own bed, one hand splayed across my chest, her strawberry blonde hair all over her face. Our late night encounter comes back to me and I suppress a groan as my clit gives a valiant, suggestive throb.
No. Even I will need more than a few hours’ sleep to recover from the force of that orgasm. After seeing Dimi flirting so outrageously with Robin yesterday morning, I have been determined to make her remember who she belonged to.
And that, I suppose, is why I took her into my own bed again last night. I’ve never slept next to another person before. I always assumed I wouldn’t be able to, that I’d lie awake all night waiting for the knife, for the pillow over the face. But with Robin, I slept deeply and soundly and even dreamlessly, which is a blessing.
My dreams are never pleasant.
I run my hand lazily over her bare shoulder, marveling at the softness of her skin. She doesn’t stir—Robin sleeps like the innocent she is, deeply and without fear. Perhaps her example was what let me sleep so heavily.
When did I last sleep peacefully? I can’t remember.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it carefully, not wanting to wake her.
A text from Leon: Your meeting with the Marseille contacts is due to begin in ten minutes.
I type back: Move it. Move all of them.
His reply comes immediately: Are you unwell?
No, I respond. I am busy.
And then I turn off the phone and set it down. Let them wait. Let them sweat. That’s negotiation 101—never appear too eager, never let them think they have the upper hand. The Marseille crew needs our weapons more than we need their money.
And I need to stay here with Robin sleeping beside me more than I need anything.
She shifts beside me, her breathing still deep and even. Asleep, she looks impossibly young, impossibly pure. What is she doing in my world? What am I doing letting her stay?
But I know the answer. It’s always the same: I’m being selfish. I’m taking something I want. This is not unusual behavior for me. But blowing off work? Twice in a row?
I’ve never done that before.
Ever.
An hour later, Leon enters the suite’s sitting room while Robin showers. His expression is thunderous.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says without preamble.
I don’t look up from my coffee. “Making buyers sweat is a valid tactic, Leon. You know this.”
“It’s not the buyers I’m worried about.” His tone sharpens with something approaching insubordination. “It’s you.”
“Then let me assure you, you have nothing to worry about on my behalf.”
“You’re being reckless.”
That gets my attention. I straighten, meeting his gaze with the full force of my authority. “I have it under control.”
“Do you?” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You are purposely riling up the very people you came here to calm. What if Robin gets caught in the crossfire? What if whoever tried to kill your father decides to finish what they started, and remove the Novak Consortium from consideration altogether?”
My fingers tighten on my coffee cup, but I can’t dismiss his concern entirely. Leon has taken bullets for me. He’s earned the right to speak plainly, more than anyone else in this world. But still—
“What are you suggesting?” I ask coolly. “And watch your tone,” I add.
“I am suggesting you remember who you are. What you are.” His eyes are hard as granite. “This girl…she’s making you soft.”
“Soft?” I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “I’ve postponed a few meetings, Leon. I’m hardly abandoning the empire.”
He crosses his arms. “You are choosing her over everything else. But worse, you are pretending not to. Yesterday, you ran around Paris as though you had no cares in the world, and you refused to let your security detail come with you up the Tower. All of this is unwise behavior, and I would not be doing my duty to you—to the Consortium—if I did not point this out.”
From deep in the suite, I hear the shower stop running, because I’ve been attuned to it the whole time. Robin will emerge soon, with flushed skin and damp hair, smelling like expensive hotel soap. The thought makes my pulse quicken.
“Fine,” I say quickly. “You’ll accompany us today, wherever I choose to go. But go and wait downstairs.”
Leon nods, satisfied at last, and leaves the room.
I try to brush off the feeling that I’ve been chastised like some naughty schoolgirl.
I take Robin to the Paris I love—not the tourist’s version with its crowded monuments and overpriced cafes, but my own carefully curated world.
We start at the Galerie Privée, a converted mansion where rare artworks hang in climate-controlled silence. The owner, Monsieur Dubois, opens the gallery exclusively for us—another perk of unlimited wealth and carefully cultivated connections.
Robin and I wander through rooms of luminous paintings, past Monet and Degas and Renoir and Cezanne. I find myself talking more than usual, explaining the art to her—impressionism’s softness, cubism’s beautiful chaos, the raw emotion of abstract expressionism.
And she soaks it all up like a sponge. She doesn’t belong in my world, and yet she fits. She moves through the gallery with genuine appreciation, asking thoughtful questions, making connections I wouldn’t have expected. There’s an intelligence in her that has nothing to do with formal education and everything to do with natural curiosity.
When she lingers before a particularly violent Picasso, I find myself sharing the story of how I acquired a Picasso of my own, involving a hand of cards in Monaco and the previous owner’s desperation. But as I end on a laugh, I see she doesn’t find the story as amusing as I do.
“Don’t you ever feel guilty?” she asks quietly. “Taking beautiful things from people who can’t afford to keep them?”
The question annoys me. “I preserve them. Without collectors like me, half these paintings would be rotting in attics or destroyed in wars.”
She turns away with a sad smile, but I hear her murmur, not intended for my ears, “Is that what you tell yourself?”
The words sting, but she’s already moved on. Still, those words follow me as we leave the gallery, a small splinter of doubt I can’t quite shake.
For lunch, I take her to Le Jardin Caché, a restaurant hidden behind unmarked doors in the Marais. The maître d’ leads us to a private courtyard where ivy climbs ancient stone walls and the air is perfumed with roses.
Robin sips wine with her meal that stains her lips berry-red. Her laughter bubbles up like the champagne we began with, bright and effervescent.
“You’re staring,” she says, catching me watching her.
“I’m appreciating,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
“And what exactly are you appreciating?”
Everything. The way you laugh. The way you see beauty in simple things. The way you make me feel human again.
Even the way you question and confront me.
“You look very beautiful today,” I say instead. “You are smiling at me like you mean it.”
She reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine. “I do mean it. With you, I always mean it.”
In the afternoon, I take her to the best patisserie in Paris, and in the evening, we stroll along the Seine again. The water reflects the lights of the city, creating a second, secret Paris that shimmers and dances with each ripple.
Robin walks close beside me, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm. Leon and the other guards maintain their distance, but I still feel their presence like shadows. Until Robin, I never really noticed them.
“Can I ask you something?” Robin says softly.
“You can ask anything.”
“What’s your favorite memory of your father?”
The question catches me off guard. I rarely talk about Papa with anyone—the memories are too precious, too painful. But something about Robin’s voice, the way she asks, makes the words come easily.
“Budapest,” I hear myself saying. “I was eleven, maybe twelve. He took me with him on a business trip, and we stayed at this grand old hotel. After his meetings, he taught me chess in this smoky lounge filled with old men puffing on cigars and arguing century-old politics.”
I can still see it clearly—the worn leather chairs, the amber light swirling through the smoke of the cigars, my father’s hands moving pieces across the board.
“He told me strategy could win any war,” I continue. “That it wasn’t about being the strongest or the loudest, but about thinking three, four moves ahead of everyone else.”
Robin listens without interrupting, her attention complete and focused. When I finish, she rests her head on my shoulder, her hair soft against my cheek.
“He’d be proud of you now,” she whispers.
“I hope so,” I reply quietly.
“I know so.”
Back at the hotel, everything changes. The softness turns sharp as I think about what I want to do to Robin when I have her alone and in private once more. The elevator ride up is charged with electricity, Robin’s presence beside me all I can think about.
In the suite, I kiss her slowly, taste the beauty of the day on her lips. They are soft and warm, tinged with wine. I undress her in silence, hands gentle and exploring. When I trace the curve of her waist, she shivers. When she runs her fingers through my hair, I feel myself arching into her touch.
This isn’t about power or control or the terms of our arrangement. This is about connection, about the way she looks at me, the way her body fits against mine like we were made for each other.
Afterwards, we lie tangled in each other, Robin’s breathing already evening out toward sleep. I should send her back to her own room, maintain the boundaries I’ve spent years perfecting. Instead, I pull her closer, breathing in the scent of her hair.
For the first time in years, I allow myself to believe that maybe—just maybe—things will turn out okay. Maybe my father will recover, his eyes will open, and he’ll smile at me one more time. Maybe the person who tried to kill him will make a mistake, reveal themselves, give me the justice I’ve been hunting.
And maybe—even after thirty days—Robin might consider staying longer. Not as a purchased companion, but as something more. Something real.
Robin shifts, her hand finding mine beneath the covers. Her fingers intertwine with mine, and I feel something sharp and painful bloom in my chest, something that makes me want to cry out, though I suppress it.
This is dangerous. Yes.
But I don’t care anymore.
I’ve toppled kingdoms, held the world in my hands. I’ve made grown men weep and powerful women kneel. But none of it feels as terrifying—or as precious—as holding Robin in my arms.
And for the first time in years, I let myself hope. Not desire. Not need. Not want.
Simply hope.
Chapter 24
Eva
Iwake with the Paris dawn to the sound of Robin’s soft breathing, her body warm and pliant against mine. Once again, she sleeps like a child—completely trusting, completely unguarded. In the dim light, she looks impossibly young, impossibly innocent.
Too innocent for this world.
And definitely too good for someone like me.
I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her. As I dress for the day’s meetings—I can’t blow them off again, unfortunately; even I can see that would be unreasonable—I feel a simmering warmth in my chest whenever I look at her.
It’s dangerous to want her like this. Dangerous to keep her so close, to let her sleep in my bed, to pretend could be anything more than a temporary arrangement.
But when Robin appears in the doorway, tousled and smiling, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and those white cotton panties that drive me crazy, I wonder what it would be like to see this every morning.
“No more playing hooky?” she asks, her voice husky with sleep.
“Just a quick meeting,” I say, adjusting my cufflinks. “Nothing exciting.”
She pouts theatrically. “All work and no play makes Eva a very boring billionaire.”
I smirk, moving toward her. “We’ve been playing for two days straight. You’re spoilt, little bird.”
“Maybe. But you’re the one who’s spoiling me.” She reaches up to straighten my collar, her fingers gentle against my throat. “Can I come with you? I promise I’ll be good.”
The word ‘good’ on her lips does things to me that I’m not ready to examine. “I suppose you can wait in the car,” I concede. “But you’re not coming into the meeting. We could have coffee and pastries somewhere afterwards.”
Her face lights up like I’ve just given her the world. And my heart lights up along with it.
In the car, Robin chatters lightly—the pastries she still has to try, the museums she’d like to visit, the way the light hits the Seine in the morning. I listen, half-amused by her enthusiasm, half-distracted by a growing sense of unease.
Because something feels off today. The streets seem quieter than usual, the shadows deeper. And in the front seat, Leon keeps checking his phone, his jaw tight with tension.
