The cafe buzzed with murmurs from the distant conversation, the clinking of cups, and the brewing machine, but to Cruella, the only sound that mattered right now was the silence that stretched them. She shouldn't be here with him having a cup of coffee, and she shouldn't have agreed to meet him. Knowing very well that this man in front of her drinking an iced cold americano is terrible for her health.
He sat there exuding nothing but effortless confidence, his black sleeveless tank top emphasizing the sharp angles of his physique. The black leather jacket draped over his shoulder fueled not only his calm, detached demeanor but there was something about it in the way he carefully drank his iced cold americano and how he absentmindedly toyed with his silver necklace.
His messy jet-black hair, dark brown eyes, sharp nose, and sinful lips—all framed by a stubborn jawline—left her both unsettled and drawn to him.
"I'm not trying to be an asshole here, Ella, and I'm hoping we are on the same page," Marcus said softly.
Cruella scoffed in amusement as she wrapped her hands around her matcha latte, seeking solitary warmth. "Not trying to be an asshole?" she echoed, her voice laced with frustration. "Look, Aurelius, I'm also not trying to be a bitch here, but let's be clear-you want me to be your what?"
Her eyes locked onto his, challenging something within him. "And please, don't reprimand me for calling you Aurelius." She exasperatedly sighed.
Marcus didn't answer. He only watched her, his dark eyes unreadable, his fingers drumming against the rim of his cup. She could feel his deadly glances as she focused on her matcha latte. The silence stretched them until he finally spoke.
"I want you to be my girlfriend. You'll act like one, though. But there's one rule in this agreement," he said casually.
Cruella blinked, caught off guard by his bluntness, almost choking on her drink. Her grip tightened around her cup as she studied his expression, but he was unreadable.
"What rule?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
"Yes. We have a rule we must abide by, my queen." He nodded, a smirk playing on his lips.
That smirk—it suddenly sent shivers down her spine.
"And what is this fucking rule?" she asked, her tone steady, confident, trying to mask anything he might use to his advantage.
But judging from how he looked at her and how his gaze darkened ever so slightly, she already knew what it was.
She just wanted to hear him say it.
Marcus took a long sip of his coffee before muttering, "Never fall in love with me."
Cruella looked at him sharply, trying to grasp the weight of the words he had just uttered. She scoffed, disbelief flashing in her eyes.
"That's utterly ridiculous," she retorted; the sheer arrogance of her statement was visible. But deep down, she knew precisely what Marcus meant.
Marcus heaved a sigh before locking eyes with those eyes that he wanted to keep looking at, the gaze that stirred something within him, awakening thoughts he shouldn't be having, along with the dirty thoughts of her bending over and calling out his name.
"I don't do relationships right now," he admitted, his voice low and deliberate. "But for now, I need you. I also need you not to fall for me, nor do I." He leaned back against his chair as if he was about to say the next thing like it was another business proposal. "What we'll be having is pure sex."
Cruella blinked.
For a moment, she thought he had misheard him.
He said it so casually-so fucking damn matter-of-factly-that it took her a second to process his words.
Then it hit her.
Sex. That's all he wanted.
She grabbed a tissue paper from the table, crumpled it in her fist, and threw it straight at his face.
"You just wanted to get inside my pants, and you made it sound like a business transaction," she snapped, her voice laced with disbelief and irritation. "Unbelievable."
Marcus barely flinched. He let the tissue bounce off him; his smirk did not falter.
"Look, Mr. Marcus Aurelius Saavedra," she sneered, using his full name like venom on her tongue, "girls are lining up for you. Why don't you choose one of them? Or maybe more?"
She felt her cheeks heating up, and she hated that. She hates how he is affecting her right now.
Marcus chuckled, shaking his head slightly as he picked up his coffee again, completely nonchalant. "Don't act like you're a virgin, Ella. We both know you aren't."
Marcus's voice was low, almost indifferent, but there was a sharpness, something coiled beneath the surface. His fingers tensed around his cup, his jaw locked as if the words tasted bitter on his tongue.
Cruella froze, her breath hitching briefly before anger flooded her veins.
The sheer audacity of this man.
Her grip on her latte tightened as she slowly set it down, fingers lingering around the rim as she processed what he had just said.
She lifted her gaze, meeting his dark eyes—eyes that held something dangerous, something possessive.
"Excuse me?" Her voice was softer than she intended, but the edge was unmistakable.
Marcus didn't flinch. He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table, his expression unreadable. "You heard me," he said, voice smooth, but something else was raw. "Or should I spell it out for you?"
Cruella's pulse quickened.
So that's what this was about.
His pride.
The idea that he wasn't her first. That she had been with someone before him.
A slow smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, but her eyes burned with defiance.
"You think you know me that well?" she asked, tilting her head slightly, voice laced with challenge.
Marcus's stare darkened. His fingers drummed once against the table, slow, calculated, like he was holding something back.
"Think whatever you want," she continued, shrugging as if his words hadn't rattled something deep inside her. But they had.
And from the way Marcus's jaw twitched and his gaze flickered down to her lips briefly before meeting her eyes again, she knew hers had, too.
The air between them crackled, thick with something unspoken, something dangerous.
Neither of them moved. Neither of them blinked.
And for the first time since she sat at that table, Cruella wondered if she had underestimated just how much trouble Marcus Aurelius Saavedra really was.
"If that's how it is, then this fucking damn proposal of yours? I don't want it. Shove it down your ass."
Cruella's voice was sharp, her eyes burning with defiance, but she hated how her pulse betrayed her—how it quickened under his gaze. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck, but she refused to let him see that he was getting to her.
Marcus, however, only smirked.
"Liar," he muttered suddenly.
Cruella's breath caught for a second.
Marcus leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto hers; his eyes sparkled with amusement laced with something more—something dangerous. "The way you're reacting right now… the blush on your cheeks…" He tilted slightly, his voice dropping lower as if savoring every word. "I know you want me too, Ms. Cervantes."
How he said her surname turned her stomach—but not entirely from disgust.
She scoffed, forcing herself to roll her eyes, trying to act unaffected. "That's not true."
Marcus chuckled, slow and deep.
"You can deny it all you want," he murmured, his fingers tapping idly against his coffee cup. "But I assure you, Ella, we'll have fun doing this."
He let the words linger, watching how her chest rose and fell and how her fingers curled a little tighter around her drink. He was testing her, pushing her limits.
"You'll enjoy having me in your bed," he continued, voice smooth, almost hypnotic. "You'll love every minute of it." His smirk deepened, his gaze flickering down to her lips for a split second before meeting her eyes again. "You'll never regret it. Just agree to my proposal."
Cruella swallowed, hating the way her body reacted to his words, hating that he could see right through her.
But she refused to be another conquest.
Slowly, she leaned in, just enough for her breath to ghost against his cheek, just enough to make him feel something, too. Then, with a soft, taunting smile, she whispered,
"In your dreams, Mr. Saavedra."
Then she pulled away, leaving the scent of her perfume lingering in the air between them.
Marcus exhaled, his smirk faltering for just a second—long enough for her to know she had gotten under his skin.
But she also knew this wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
With that, she turned on her heel, leaving him right there, no longer interested in continuing the conversation.
Marcus didn't stop her. He didn't call her name or try to convince her otherwise. He simply watched.
He watched the sway of her hips as she walked away, her shoulders tensed as if she were forcing herself not to look back.
His gaze flickered to the cup she left behind.
Her lipstick—slightly smudged, a soft red stain—marked the rim.
His jaw clenched.
He exhaled slowly, running his tongue over his teeth, something dark and unreadable flickering in his eyes.
Damn her.
Damn, that lips of hers.
And damn, the way she made him want her even more.