Married to the Wrong CEO

Chapter 101: Can I?

Slowly, she descended the stairs, heading straight toward the bar where she carefully dropped her tray before asking for an excuse to head for the toilet. Her voice was steady, but her hands were not, her fingers still tingling from the rush of adrenaline that refused to leave her body.

The restroom was in a different part of the club, down a long corridor that felt quieter the farther she walked. The music dulled slightly with each step, replaced by the hum of hidden lights and the faint echo of voices behind closed doors.

She was surprised to see that there was a huge and clearly marked section for men and another that led toward a separate corridor for women. The signs were polished metal, reflecting the dim light like mirrors.

Instantly, she chose the one for women, heading inside with no particular intention other than to wash her hands and calm her racing heart.

She stared at her face in the mirror, a frown settling on her lips as she turned on the tap and slowly washed her hands in the well-lit area, the bright white lights revealing details the club lighting hid—her flushed cheeks, her slightly parted lips, her wide eyes.

"Get your mind out of the gutter," she muttered to herself, her voice barely above a whisper as water ran over her fingers.

Get your mind out of the gutter, she repeated internally, unable to fathom why she would even consider pleasure when the person in question could have her killed—directly or indirectly—without a second thought.

The more she thought about it, the more she steeled her heart, coming to the firm conclusion that she would avoid him like the plague he was.

She had an hour left. Just one more hour. And she would do the job she needed to do without thinking about a man who was twice her height, covered in tattoos, and whose missing finger came with far too many unanswered questions.

Only God knows how he lost that finger, she thought uneasily.

Someone probably slashed it off, she continued with dread, the image alone enough to erase any false grandeur she had constructed about sleeping with a handsome mafia man with a huge build and dangerous appeal.

Done washing her hands, she turned around, intending to head out.

But she had only taken a single step toward the exit of the women’s corridor when she froze.

Her breath caught as she saw him walk in.

Instinctively, she scrambled back, her heart leaping violently in her chest as she desperately hoped she hadn’t been seen. She stood completely still, barely breathing—only to be sorely disappointed when the very next second she heard footsteps.

They were slow. Deliberate.

She stepped back as silently as she could, but it didn’t matter. He appeared right in front of her the very next moment.

Her eyes widened in shock as she took in the entirety of him in the well-lit bathroom, so bright that no part of him could be missed or hidden.

His shirt was partly open, just enough to expose a hard, sculpted chest. His face was clearly visible—sharp, masculine, and undeniably mature. Nothing about him suggested youth or softness. He looked like a man who had lived, fought, and survived.

His gaze was intense, his brown eyes fixed on her with a slight smirk curving his lips as he stepped closer. Llara subconsciously took a step back, her heels barely making a sound against the tiled floor.

"Do I scare you?" he asked.

She struggled to find words, doing her best not to let her gaze drop down his waist and farther between his legs.

"You didn’t seem scared of me the last time we met," he added casually.

She finally found her voice.

Squaring her shoulders, she forced herself to stand straighter, pretending she was unbothered by his presence despite how often she had been sneaking glances at him earlier.

"Wh—why should I be scared of you? This is my first time seeing you since then!"

Barely had the words left her mouth when he chuckled, leaning his head slightly to the side, both hands slipping into his pockets as if he were entirely at ease.

"Liar," he said, stepping forward.

She instantly stepped back, until they were fully inside the women’s section of the bathroom, directly in front of the first large toilet cubicle.

Everything around them was white and spotless, gleaming under the lights—yet nothing held Llara’s attention like the man standing in front of her.

"So if you weren’t the one who kept peeking glances at me," he continued calmly, "it must have been someone who looked exactly like you."

They both knew it was her.

Her heart, which she had only just managed to calm, began to race again—faster, harder—until her chest felt tight. freewebnσvel.cѳm

"I look at everyone," she retorted sharply. There was no way she was going to admit to it. She lifted her head and stubbornly fixed her gaze on him—only to freeze.

She hadn’t expected his stare to be that intense.

It felt as though he could see straight through her, stripping away every excuse and lie. Her palms grew sweaty, her breathing shallow.

"Do you like me?" he asked.

Shock rippled through her.

"You... you’re what? Ten years older than me!" she gasped, as though the idea itself was scandalous.

Instead of retreating, he moved closer.

"That does not answer the question," he said quietly.

Llara gulped, about to say no—to end this before it went any further—when footsteps echoed again.

Female voices. Laughter. Giggling.

Relief washed over her. He’ll have to leave, she thought. He won’t risk being seen here.

She was wrong.

Without warning, he pushed open one of the cubicle doors, pulled her inside with him, shut the door, and locked it.

The cubicle was large—normally spacious—but with a tall, broad man like him inside, it suddenly felt very small. She could feel his presence behind her, close enough that she was acutely aware of every breath he took.

She was relieved to see that the cubicle doors were fully private, with no gaps or openings.

The very next second, she climbed onto the toilet seat and stood on it, avoiding his gaze. Her mind raced as she waited for the girls outside to leave so she could escape.

But when she glanced at Matteo again, she froze.

His gaze was on her—dark, heated—and there was something in it that made her mouth go dry even as she unconsciously licked her lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, leaning closer until his body pressed against hers, his voice a whisper against her ear.

She was certain he could hear her heart pounding.

"Yes," she croaked.

She didn’t know who he truly was—but in that moment, with the intensity of her attraction crashing over her, she decided that a kiss wouldn’t kill her.