Two days passed, and there was no Marcus Aurelius.
Or so she thought.
Cruella had almost convinced herself that he had given up—that he had finally taken the hint and moved on, just like every other man should when they were told no.
And yet, as she walked into her usual café late in the afternoon—exhausted from a grueling design revision meeting—a chill ran down her spine. A feeling—something unexplainable—made the hairs on her arms rise.
Then she saw him.
Marcus was sitting in the same spot they had argued two days ago, lounging as if he owned the place. His deep red, textured button-up jacket was left open, revealing a crisp white dress shirt with the top buttons undone—just enough for that effortlessly refined touch.
A black leather belt with a metallic buckle cinched his waist, accentuating the fit of his dark gray trousers. His polished burgundy dress shoes gleamed under the café's dimming light, harmonizing with the red tones of his jacket.
As always, he was deliberate.
And right now, he was watching her.
Cruella exhaled sharply, schooling her face into indifference. Ignore him. Walk past him.
She went to the counter, ordering her usual Spanish latte—iced this time. The cool condensation against her fingertips starkly contrasted with the heat bubbling under her skin.
She mustered every ounce of restraint not to march over and pour the drink over his arrogant face. If murder weren't a crime, she might have considered it.
Instead, she found a table at the farthest corner of the café, settling into the chair with an exasperated sigh. Pulling out her phone, she attempted to distract herself—anything to pretend he wasn't there.
But a familiar voice interrupted her before she could even scroll through her notifications.
"Arch. Cervantes, perfect timing," a colleague said, setting down a folder. "Mind if we go over the project details?"
She forced a polite smile, nodding as they delved into the discussion. What was meant to be a quick review stretched into an hour of finalizing details, her focus shifting entirely to work—at least, until the conversation ended and she was finally alone again.
And when she glanced up, Marcus was still there.
Still watching.
But there was a difference now.
Only this time, he wasn't alone.
A girl stood beside his table, leaning in far too close, her long, manicured fingers grazing his arm as she laughed at something he said. She was pretty—of course, with perfect hair, a tight dress, and a sultry expression that screamed I want you.
Cruella's grip on her cup tightened. She shouldn't care.
Good. Let him be someone else's problem.
So, Why did something in her chest tighten at the sight?
And yet, for some reason, the sight made her stomach twist in a way she didn't care to acknowledge.
She exhaled sharply and murmured under her breath, "Why is this shit annoying the fuck out of me?"
On the other hand, Marcus looked utterly at ease, lounging in his seat as he listened to the girl, his expression unreadable. But then—just for a second—his dark brown eyes flickered in Cruella's direction.
Then, suddenly, a bright idea sparked in her mind—one that made the corner of her lips twitch.
Perhaps the devilish side of her had finally awakened.
Perhaps it was just a reaction to a confident man named Marcus Aurelius Saavedra.
Either way, she was about to do something.
And she couldn't wait to see how he'd respond.
"Well, two can play this game, Saavedra," she murmured.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Cruella gathered her things. Every movement was measured—graceful, intentional. She smoothed her hands over her outfit, ensuring every inch of her looked flawless. Then, with her Spanish latte in one hand and mischief glinting in her eyes, she strode toward his table.
The air shifted.
She could feel Marcus's gaze sharpening, assessing her approach, reading the tilt of her chin and the calculated sway of her hips.
She stopped beside him, resting a delicate hand on his shoulder, leaning down just enough for her perfume to ghost over his skin. Then, with a voice as smooth as silk, she purred,
"Love, what are you doing here?"
The words dripped with familiarity, intimate enough to sound dangerous.
The woman sitting across from him stiffened, eyes darting between them. Cruella barely spared her a glance—just enough to let her presence be felt before turning her full attention back to Marcus.
His lips twitched. Not quite a smirk, not quite a frown—just interest. Calculating.
Cruella let her fingers graze his shoulder before she straightened, gazing at the woman. She cocked her head slightly, expression perfectly neutral but laced with something just sharp enough to cut.
"Who are you?"
The woman blinked, hesitating.
Cruella didn't wait for an answer. Instead, she looked back at Marcus, letting her eyes drag over him slowly, deliberately—taking in his tailored outfit, the way he lounged with effortless arrogance, the way he was waiting for her next move.
Then, with a soft, knowing hum, she murmured, "Didn't know this was your type."
Her tone was light, but the implication wasn't.
And just like that, she shrugged, turned on her heel, and walked away—her triumphant smile hidden behind the rim of her iced latte as she took a slow, satisfied sip.
She didn't have to look back to know Marcus was watching her go. Eyeing her every movement
And yet—
His proposal lingered in the back of her mind.
Sex. Pure and Simple. No strings attached, just pure sex.
Quite tempting. A wicked temptation that keeps bothering her. She didn't want to admit it, but she'd probably agree.
She took another slow sip of her Spanish latte, the cold liquid doing little to cool the heat simmering beneath her skin. She hated how easily he got under it. Hated how a simple glance from him could make her pulse quicken—how, despite everything, there was always an unspoken current between them, dangerous and electrifying.
But before she could push the thought away—
A familiar scent lingered. Marcus.
She didn't have to turn around to know he was following her, his steps unhurried, dripping with that aggravating confidence, like he had already won. Like she was precisely where he wanted her.
Her grip on her cup tightened, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of stopping. Instead, she smirked, tilting her head just slightly as she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear—
"That's what I thought."
A low chuckle rumbled behind her. Cocky. That was the only thing way she described it.
"You really think you've got me figured out, huh?" he murmured, matching her pace.
Cruella finally turned to face him, tilting her head slightly, her eyes alight with challenge. "I don't think so, Aurelius. I know."
His gaze flickered to her lips briefly before returning to her eyes. "Careful, sweetheart. That confidence of yours might get you into trouble."
She laughed softly, deliberately brushing past him as she stepped forward. "You're the one who chased me, remember?"
He reached out then, his fingers barely grazing her wrist—a touch so fleeting, so restrained, yet it sent a jolt of heat up her spine.
"You walk away like you're not tempted," Marcus said, his voice lower now, almost dangerous. "But we both know you are."
Cruella leaned in just slightly, enough for him to catch the scent of her perfume, enough for the warmth between them to turn suffocating.
"Tempting, yes," she admitted, her voice soft, teasing. Then she pulled back with a smirk. "But giving in? That's a different story."
Cruella walked forward, leaving Marcus dwelling on his own. But the heat of Marcus' presence still lingers behind her, his scent enveloping her.
She had barely taken a few steps away from him when she heard him call her out. "Ella."
Something in his voice made her pause. Commanding wasn't the proper term. Then, in a swift motion, Marcus stepped in front of her, blocking her path. His dark eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.
"Let me drive you home," he said, his voice steady, controlled.
She raised a brow, crossing her arms as she looked up at him. "Oh? So now you suddenly care where I go?"
His jaw tightened, but a smirk ghosted over his lips. "I never said I didn't."
Cruella scoffed, shaking her head. "Whatever makes you sleep at night," she murmured, voice smooth yet taunting.
Marcus took a step closer, his voice dropping into something almost sinful. "Having you in my bed."
The air between them tightened.
Cruella felt her pulse spike, but she refused to let him see it. Instead, she tilted her chin, her lips curled into a smirk. "Dream on, Saavedra."
She turned to walk away again, but this time, he was quicker. His hand wrapped gently—but firmly—around her wrist, stopping her.
"Get in the car, Ella."
His voice was lower now, more commanding, and she hesitated for the first time that night. The game between them had always been laced with tension, but this? This was something else entirely.
She looked up at him, searching his face. He was waiting, unwavering. He never faltered.
After a moment, she exhaled sharply and rolled her eyes. "Fine. But don't think this means you've won anything."
Marcus only smirked as he let go of her wrist, stepping back to lead her toward his car.
"Oh, sweetheart," he murmured. "I never lose."
She slipped into the passenger seat with defiance, her every movement sharp and deliberate. All of her patience was running thin. What on earth is she doing? She could've left him alone with that damned woman.
Marcus rounded the car leisurely, taking his time before sliding into the driver's seat. He didn't start the engine right away. Instead, he let the tension settle between them, thick and unyielding.
Cruella exhaled sharply, crossing her legs and gazing toward the window, pretending not to notice how Marcus was watching her.
"You're tense," he murmured, fingers drumming lazily against the steering wheel.
She scoffed. "No shit, Saavedra. What gave it away?"
His smirk deepened. "Maybe you're gripping the seat like you'd rather be anywhere else but here."
She turned to glare at him. "Because I would rather be anywhere else but here."
Marcus chuckled, low and deep. "Liar."
Cruella narrowed her eyes, but before she could fire back, he leaned in slightly, closing the space between them. His scent—clean, musky, with the faintest trace of leather—wrapped around her, making it impossible to ignore him. His lips almost touched her cheek.
"You knew exactly what you were doing back there," he murmured. "You wanted a reaction, and you got one."
She tilted her chin up, refusing to back down. "And what if I did?"
His gaze dropped to her lips for half a second before disappearing to meet her eyes. "Then you should be ready for whatever happens next." He leaned in and kissed her lips, but she was caught off guard. She resisted letting him know that a simple kiss on the lips sent chills down her spine.
With a cunning grin, he withdrew, content with the chaos he had created in her. He finally got to kiss those mocking lips that had struck him in his dream.
"Just drive, Marcus," she said, her voice colder than she felt. But she felt something stirred. Weird.
His smirk didn't waver as he finally turned the key in the ignition. "Whatever you say, queen."
He didn't ask where her home was—because he already knew.
Cruella shot him a sideways glance as the car smoothly pulled out of the parking lot, the city lights casting fleeting shadows across his sharp features. "Not going to ask for directions?"
Marcus smirked, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. "No need."
Her brows knitted together. "And how exactly do you know where I live?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he shifted gears effortlessly, the deep rumble of the engine filling the silence. Then, glancing in her direction, he said, "Your brothers—Francis Xavier and Xavier Ignatius—talk more than they should when alcohol is involved."
Cruella's jaw clenched. Of course. The twins.
Those two were fiercely protective, but they were also reckless. If Marcus had been around them long enough, it wasn't surprising that he had picked up details she would have preferred to keep to herself.
"Remind me to kill them later," she muttered.
Marcus chuckled. "Now, that's no way to talk about family."
She turned to face him fully, eyes narrowed. "I don't like people knowing too much about me, Saavedra."
He tilted his head slightly as if considering her words. Then, with a slow, knowing smirk, he replied, "I already know enough."
His tone sent a wave of irritation—and something else—through her.
She huffed, crossing her arms. "Stalker behavior, honestly."
Marcus only laughed, the deep, rich sound filling the car. "Oh, Ella," he mused, glancing at her briefly before returning to the road. "You'll love the attention."
She scoffed but didn't deny it. Because of the way her pulse was racing? The way her body betrayed her every time he looked at her like that?