Chereads / Billionaire's Game of Seduction / Chapter 15 - Chapter 15. Sorry

Chapter 15 - Chapter 15. Sorry

"I'm sorry, Zara. I have no excuse for me and Thalia—or for everything you heard that night from my foul mouth."

Martin's voice broke the silence in the elevator, his deep baritone cutting through the hum of descending floors. The numbers above ticked down: 29, 28, 27.

I kept my gaze fixed ahead, willing the knot in my throat to dissolve. "Don't be. I might be taken aback by what happened, but I've no right to blame you for everything. We… we have no commitment, so…"

The words snagged, suddenly stuck. Heat pricked my eyes. Damn it. Why now?

Martin set the box he was holding on the elevator floor and gripped my arms, firm but not harsh. He lowered himself to my eye level, his 6'3" frame collapsing the space between us until his sharp gaze locked onto mine. 

"Just get angry, Zara." he urged, his voice low and insistent. "Stop tiptoeing like the floor will crack under you. You're always like this—carrying your own weight, pretending it's fine when people take advantage, thinking it can't hurt you."

"Will anything change if I'm angry?" My voice trembled, quiet but raw.

"For fuck's sake, Zara! Anger's not about fixing things—it's about feeling them. If I matter to you at all, you'd—" His voice caught, a crack of frustration and something raw beneath. "Am I even important to you?"

I froze, my heart hammering as I stared up at him in disbelief. How could he ask me that? He knew better than anyone I never flirted with anyone but him, even when we weren't officially committed.

"You're right." A bitter laugh escaped me, sharper than I intended. "Maybe you're not that important to me. Maybe that's why I can't even bother getting angry over something so insignificant."

His hands tightened on my arms, but there was no anger in his grip—only confusion, searching for something I wasn't sure I wanted to give. "Zara… How…"

"Let me go." I shrugged off his grip, a sharp sarcasm curling my words. "Or do you think touching me like this will make me spread my legs for you? Sorry, Martin, I'm not in the mood to use you as my personal pleasure toy right now."

The tension crackled, thick and heavy in the air. His jaw tightened, a flicker of something beneath the surface—anger, maybe, but also… hurt? Then, as quickly as it had flared, his grip loosened. He straightened, letting out a low, humorless chuckle.

"That's a first."

"What is?" I demanded, still angry, but confused.

"Hearing you spit fire at me anywhere outside the kitchen," he said, a soft chuckle slipping past his lips. "You're always fierce in there—strict, unyielding. But when it comes to us? You're soft. Forgiving. Too forgiving. Do you know how jealous I've been? You give more grief to your pans and knives than you ever give to me."

His laugh was warmer this time, I looked at his soft gaze, tinged with a nostalgia that made my chest ache. For a moment, I saw the Martin I'd first fallen for—the man I admired from afar at the culinary academy, the one who once shielded me from hot oil without a second thought.

The memory stirred something deep and bittersweet. He'd been my protector, my first kiss, my everything. And maybe he still was.

"Are you jealous of my pans and knives?" I countered, forcing a dry laugh. "Do you want me to set you on fire next time or carve you up on a chopping board?"

"I'd take it." His voice dipped low, the teasing warmth slipping into something more serious. "Better than you walking away, acting like none of this matters. That night… I wished you'd slapped me, but you were angrier with Thalia than you've ever been with me. Why?"

I flinched, his words cutting deeper than I expected. "That's…because—"

"Because it was her," he pressed, his voice low, but relentless. "If it had been anyone else, you wouldn't have cared as much, would you?"

The elevator dinged at the 13th floor, but the moment stretched—unbearably long and as heavy as his question. Of course, I cared! But our status... I glanced at his dull eyes that waiting for my answer, and let out a long sigh.

"Yes." My voice cracked, trembling with the weight of unspoken feelings. "You can mess around with anyone you want. But why did it have to be Thalia? You know what she put me through. And still, you—"

"To make you jealous."

I blinked, confusion sweeping over me. "Wh-what?"

"I want you to get jealous. I want you to cry over me, to slap me, to hit my chest, to tell me that you just want me for yourself. I need to feel wanted by you, Zara."

"Martin, when did I not want you?"

"You're always so calm when I flirt with others."

"That's because we're not in a committed relationship, and… and you have this free spirit. I mean—"

"Isn't that what you made me become? Did you forget how eager you were to show me that you couldn't be in anything serious after… after your father's scandal?"

What was he talking about? What had I missed?

"Didn't we both agree that we don't like commitment?"

His eyes darkened, a flash of disgust flickering across his face.

"That's because I didn't want to pressure you. But it's been five years, Zara." He paused, his breath ragged. "You know, at the last company retreat, when I danced with Thalia, played truth or dare, and ended up kissing her… you were still okay with it. Then Thalia consoled me and we—"

"Stop! You don't need to keep going. Why are you blaming me?"

"I'm not blaming you," he said softly, almost too softly. "I'm explaining—no, I'm confessing. I want you to want me the way I want you."

The weight of his confession crashed over me like a wave, a bitter sting of regret mixing with something that felt dangerously close to desire. The elevator beeped, signaling we'd arrived at the ground floor.

Martin handed me the box, carelessly as if he was angry, and kept talking. "But I get it now. Your hatred for Thalia is louder than any love you could've had for me. So, I guess nothing I say will make a difference now."

"Martin, I—"

"Good luck with your new journey, Zara." He cut me off and turned his gaze away, signaling that I should get out of the elevator.

I stepped out of the elevator, hesitating for a moment, before I turned back, trying to catch one last glimpse of him as he disappeared with the doors closing. Wait, why did it feel like I was the villain here?

***

The noise and wind from the helicopter made me stagger. I'd ridden in this helicopter several times before, but it never got easier. 

For the past week, I'd been shuttling back and forth between Manhattan and Bellair Haven for uniform fittings with Berta. And finally, today was my first day working at the mansion—also the start of Ravier's game.

I needed to stay in the mansion from Thursday evening until Monday morning because Ravier worked nomadically during the week. But that schedule wasn't set in stone. As he'd bluntly put it, he practically owned my neck 24/7 for the next three months.

These five rounds of his game had to be completed in two months, all before the Bourdaine competition. That competition would decide my future—where I could restart my career and whether I could stand a chance against The Amethyst.

Stepping into the mansion, I felt my anxiety spike. My palms were damp, and I wiped them against my sides, though it didn't help much. 

I'd tried out all five panty vibrators I'd be wearing during the game, each one offering its own unique torment. Leah had been my partner in my strange rehearsal, helping me test the settings—sometimes with a remote, sometimes with the app on her phone.

Ravier wasn't wrong when he said it was a mental game. The thrill didn't come from how intense the vibrations were but from the way they hit unexpectedly, controlled entirely by someone else.

I'd barely had time to practice. I'd focused on understanding how to manage the anticipation, figuring out what to do when the vibrations caught me off guard. 

Orgasm was something I felt because I let my mind focus on it and got carried away by the sensation. If I could stay mindful—if I could keep my head clear—I might hold my ground against Ravier's power play.

Berta led me to the room that had been prepared for me. It was on the second floor, with a Queen-size bed and a large window overlooking the backyard,offering a view of the private beach and Long Island Sound.

She opened the closet to show me the clothes I'd be wearing, including my uniform. Alongside my chef's attire, there were custom-made bras and lingerie, all tailored to my size.

A strapless bra, perfect for off-shoulder outfits, caught my eye, as well as panties designed with a pocket to hold a vibrator in place. I blushed at the sight of the different colors and patterns.

"You can rest first and start working at five to prepare dinner. And... handle your other business with young Auckland," Berta said, her tone casual but knowing.

I pulled my gaze away from the lingerie, feeling slightly embarrassed, and looked at her instead. Her use of the nickname made me chuckle in awe—it showed how close she was to Ravier.

"Will I meet Mr. Auckland in the kitchen?" I asked.

"I think so," she replied.

"And about the dish I need to cook?"

"For tonight, you'll find out in the kitchen. The ingredients are already prepped, and I sent you a list of things to keep in mind when cooking for young Auckland through e-mail. Have you received it?"

"Yes, I've read it," I confirmed.

"If you need help, just call 101 on the intercom. It'll connect directly to me."

"Got it."

"I'll leave you alone then."

She turned to leave but paused in the doorway, looking back at me with a faint smile. "Try doing Kegel exercises—they'll help you control your body's responses better, Ms. Shamari."

I froze for a moment, understanding her meaning quickly, then nodded with a shy smile. "Please, call me Zara, ma'am."

Her smile softened. "Then you should call me Berta." She shut the door behind her, leaving me standing in the quiet room, my thoughts spinning.

***