“Let’s continue in the bedroom. Not here—this place is too exposed,” Alya whispered breathlessly, holding back the broad chest of Arshaka as he pinned her down on the white sand. Her eyes gazed at him languidly, radiating a false passion that had nevertheless succeeded in making the mafia man lose all reason.
Arshaka let out a low growl, a masculine sound that seemed to vibrate through the air around them. Without saying much, he effortlessly lifted Alya into his arms and carried her into the luxurious villa facing the ocean. The moment Alya’s back touched the softness of the king-size bed, Arshaka caged her beneath him. He stared intently at the beautiful face below him, a possessive gleam blazing in his sharp, hawk-like eyes.
“I’m asking you one more time, Alya,” Arshaka said, his voice heavy and rigid, radiating an absolute dominance that could not be challenged. “If we cross this line, you’ll become completely mine. Your body, your soul, your every breath—mine alone. There’s no going back. Do you agree?”
Alya swallowed. Her heart screamed curses at this man, yet her lips curved into a seductive smile. She nodded slowly and pulled Arshaka closer by the nape of his neck. Forgive me, Rehan. Forgive me. I have to do this to avenge us, Alya cried inwardly, her heart feeling torn to shreds.
That afternoon, time seemed to stop. Arshaka worshiped Alya with explosive, seemingly endless passion. The cold, merciless man of the underworld seemed to pour all his sanity and lovesick devotion into Alya. Kiss after kiss, touch after touch, they burned away the boundary between day and night. They did not truly fall asleep until the clock on the wall showed three in the morning, leaving only their ragged breathing and sweat mingling between them.
The next morning, sunlight slipped through the gap in the curtains, forcing Alya to open her eyes. Every joint in her body felt utterly battered. Slowly, she freed herself from Arshaka’s possessive embrace as he continued sleeping soundly, then stumbled toward the bathroom.
Beneath the cold rush of the shower, Alya’s defenses collapsed. She grabbed a sponge and scrubbed her skin harshly, as though she could wash away every trace of Arshaka’s touch from her body. Disgust, guilt, and anger churned together inside her. Her tears fell with the running water. She had surrendered her crown to the devil who had destroyed her life. But Alya quickly wiped away her tears. She was a clever journalist; she could not fall apart now. Her sacrifice could not be in vain.
With much calmer steps, Alya emerged from the bathroom wearing a bathrobe. The enticing aroma of food led her toward the villa’s kitchen. Alya stopped in the doorway.
Arshaka stood there with his back to her, busy with a frying pan. The sight was astonishingly paralyzing. The cruel heir to the Revander family was wearing nothing but an apron tied around his neck and waist, exposing his muscular, well-built back, broad shoulders, and nearly perfect athletic physique. When Arshaka turned around, his six-pack abs stood out clearly, complemented by a strong jaw and a high-bridged nose that made him look like a Greek god.
For a moment, Alya stood frozen. Her heart pounded out of control. Flashes of their lovemaking the night before—how roughly yet reverently the man had touched her—spun through her mind again. A flush spread across Alya’s cheeks. Realizing she was beginning to be captivated by her enemy’s charm, Alya quickly cleared her throat.
“Ahem.” Alya banished her lewd thoughts and approached Arshaka with the sweetest smile she could manage. “It smells amazing. You can cook?”
Arshaka gave her a faint smile, a rare expression he showed only to the woman standing before him. “Only for you.”
From that day on, Alya’s charade grew more perfect. They spent their days like an ordinary couple swept up in love. Arshaka, who was usually surrounded by bodyguards and occupied with the affairs of the underworld, now devoted all his time to driving Alya to and from the television station. They spent their evenings having romantic dinners, going for walks, and shopping like ordinary people. Alya’s sweetness, obedience, and attentiveness successfully blinded Arshaka’s predatory instincts. The devil had fallen completely at Alya’s feet.
Until one night, as Arshaka drove his luxury car through the streets of Jakarta, he took Alya’s hand and gently kissed the back of it.
“We’re not eating out tonight,” Arshaka said in a deep voice. “I’ve prepared a romantic dinner. At my main apartment.”
At that, Alya’s heart began to race. Arshaka’s main apartment. The place that had long served as the mafia’s most secret defensive stronghold, where all his illicit business documents and his true identity as “Ronan” were hidden. A place even Doni, his trusted assistant, could not enter without permission.
Alya turned toward the car window, hiding the cold smile etched across her lips. Her struggle to throw away her pride had finally paid off.
Her opportunity had arrived. Tonight, Arshaka Revander’s downfall would begin.