Sexting My Ex’s Dad (Forbidden Silver Foxes)

39. Stella

39

STELLA

“ S tella, you’re on fire tonight!” Isobel tells me encouragingly from the sidelines. “There’s not a man in here who can keep his eyes off of you. I might be a little bit jealous. Just when did you become a sexy little vixen?”

I smile. “I guess there’s nothing else holding me back.”

To be honest, it’d been a bit weird for me to see Elio and work at Regency at the same time. I’d felt like I was cheating because of what I was forced to wear and the way I had to talk. If he thought seeing me and Paul had been bad…well, he would have hated to see me at work.

But with no more guys in my life, that meant I could do whatever I wanted and there was nobody who would make me feel bad about it.

Isobel elbows me playfully before the smile leaves her face. “What is he doing here?”

My eyes scan the crowd, and that’s when I see him. Elio Lombardi, the man who broke my heart, standing near the bar with his piercing blue eyes fixed on me. I can’t believe he has the nerve to show up here after everything that’s happened between us.

Oh no, he’s not going back to coming here just so he can stare at me, is he? If that’s the case, I’ll shut him down here and now.

Isobel did say he was the new owner, but that doesn’t mean he needs to be here. Unless he bought the company just so he could torture me. I wouldn’t expect anything less out of a Lombardi.

I mutter under my breath, willing him to disappear. But he doesn’t. Instead, his gaze remains locked on mine, and I feel the anger boiling within me.

The least he can do, after everything, is stay out of my sight.

“Excuse me,” I say to Isobel, making a beeline for Elio. The closer I get, the more I notice his impeccably tailored suit, accentuating every curve of his muscles, and distinguished salt-and-pepper hair, a stark contrast to the casual attire of the other patrons. He looks like he belongs in a boardroom, not a gentleman’s club.

I wish that he was ugly.

“Leave,” I demand, the words spilling out before I can stop them once I’m in front of him. “It doesn’t matter what you say, we’re done.”

“Stella,” Elio replies smoothly, his voice calm but laced with an underlying intensity. “I’m not here for you. I have a business meeting.”

“Here? Seriously?” I scoff, searching his face for any hint of deception. As much as I’d love to believe that he’s lying, I know Elio well enough to recognize his sincerity. He’s always been a master of concealing his true emotions, but there’s something about his eyes that betrays him.

“Believe it or not,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine, “I can use the places I own for networking, and this one happens to be one my colleagues enjoy very much. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

That’s his way of brushing me off. I hate how he does it so easily.

Elio steps away, leaving me standing there, feeling small for thinking it was about me. The anger that was coursing through me moments before is now replaced by a sense of loss and confusion. Why did he have to show up now, when I’m finally starting to pick up the pieces that he’d broken?

Frustration gnaws at me, and I’m startled when Marnie sidles up beside me.

“Stella, there’s a guy asking for a private session with you,” she says, keeping her voice low even as she dances alongside me. “I know you don’t usually do privates, but he’s willing to pay a lot of money. You want me to send him your way?”

Usually, I’d decline – she’s right; private sessions aren’t really my thing. But tonight is different. I want to prove to myself, and everyone else, that I’ve moved on. If Elio wants to play games, I can play too. “Yeah, sure,” I say, nodding toward the client area. “Let him know I’ll be there in a minute.”

“You go girl.” Marnie smirks knowingly before slipping away.

Once I finish with my customers, I find the client waiting near the bar. He’s middle-aged, with a thick gold chain hanging around his neck and a drink clutched in one hand.

“Stella, right?” he asks, leering at me as I approach. There’s something predatory in his eyes that makes me uneasy, but I force myself to maintain a professional demeanor.

“That’s right, master,” I reply, offering a tight-lipped smile. “Ready for your private session?”

“There’s nothing I want more,” he grins, his fingers brushing against the small of my back as we walk toward the private room. I stiffen at the contact but manage to keep my composure. This is all just part of the game, I remind myself, and soon enough, it’ll be over.

“Here we are,” I announce as we enter the dimly lit room, its walls strung with fairy lights that cast a warm glow over the plush seating. The door clicks shut behind us, sealing us off from the world outside.

“Perfect,” he purrs, sinking into one of the chairs and beckoning for me to come closer. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking into a trap, but I push those thoughts aside and focus on the task at hand: making Elio jealous.

I hadn’t even realized that was my goal.

But the more I consider it, the more I realize it’s true. I want him to know exactly what he’s missing out on.

I take a deep breath and approach the client. I can feel his eyes on me, raking over my body with a hunger that makes my skin crawl, but I force myself to focus on my technique, determined to keep an emotional distance between us.

I begin to move, each undulation of my body carefully choreographed to the slow, sultry beat of the music playing softly in the background. My hands trail along my curves, drawing attention to the barely-there maid outfit I’m wearing. The client’s gaze follows every motion, his expression growing increasingly predatory.

“Come closer,” he commands, and I comply, stepping toward him and straddling his thighs. As I continue to dance, I remind myself that this is just a performance – a means to an end. But that doesn’t stop the churning unease in the pit of my stomach, or the anger simmering just below the surface at Elio’s betrayal that has led me to this moment.

He’s the reason I’m doing this.

Suddenly, the door flies open with a crash, and there stands Elio, his blue eyes blazing with fury.

“Get out,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

“Hey, man, I paid for this,” the client protests, gripping my hips as if to stake his claim.

“Your money’s no good here. Leave. Now.” Elio’s cold, unyielding tone leaves no room for argument. “Otherwise I’ll have your face plastered on the ‘do not let in’ board.”

His anger is palpable, and though part of me is relieved to see him come to my rescue, another part of me seethes with frustration at his interference. This was my decision, not his. And yet, there he stands, taking control of the situation as if it’s his right.

He always does this – takes control.

The client releases me, reluctantly rising from his seat and throwing a venomous glare at Elio before stalking out of the room. I watch him go, my heart pounding in my chest for an entirely different reason now.

My plan had worked.