The Whole Package (Hearts to Buy #1)

Carmen

“ Y eah, got it, A." The words tumble out, half-bored, as Ava's familiar nightly litany plays through the phone. But tonight, there's a tremor in her voice, a subtle note of something that might be fear. It's unsettling. Ava doesn’t do fear, or if she does, it’s buried so deep you’d need a chisel to find it. My stomach tightens; whatever’s got Ava rattled, it’s bad.

She's always been the unshakeable one, especially now with Lily around, the latest to step into our gilded cage. But with us, the veterans of this high-stakes game? There's no need for pretense. We've all crossed that line, sold pieces of ourselves bit by bit until what's left is a perfectly crafted facade. So why the act now, Ava? What are you hiding behind that calm exterior?

"I'm not messing around, ," Ava's voice cuts through, laced with an irritation that's more than skin-deep. There's a sharpness, a hard edge of concern that she can't quite mask. The more she talks, the clearer it becomes – something's off. "Two girls have vanished in the last month. I need all of you on alert, eyes wide open."

I let out a low chuckle, not quite ready to dive into the pool of worry she was swimming in. “What? They probably scored big and decided to take a spontaneous trip to Miami. Chill, A.” My words come out sharper than I intended—a flimsy shield against the creeping unease Ava’s voice stirs in me. But even as I brush it off, a nagging voice whispers that it might not be so simple. Ava's rarely wrong, and she's even less often scared.

"," Ava's voice hardens, a stern warning slicing through. "A big break's no good to you if you're dead."

Her words linger in the air, heavy with unspoken fears. But I'm not one to dwell in the shadows of what-ifs. "Maybe not," I retort, a sharp edge to my voice, "but dying young has a way of making you immortal." The words hang between us, a defiant echo of my refusal to be caged by fear.

I hit the red button on my phone, severing the connection. As the line goes dead, a bitter thought gnaws at me. Ava's concern is just for her investment. Deep down, I know it's more complicated. And If I’m dead, I can’t make her any money. She's not the villain in my story, but she's not my savior either. If she genuinely cared, would she have let me spiral down this path, no matter how desperately I begged for it?

"Are you decent?" Victor’s voice slices through the quiet, low and familiar. He nudges the bathroom door open without waiting, he never does. There’s no asking with him, just taking, as if my space is his to invade. Part of me expects it, the other part is just too tired to care. He's probably hoping to catch me in a state of undress, perhaps lounging in a bath of bubbles instead of scowling at my phone perched on the toilet.

"Only on days that end with 'Y,'" I quip, beckoning him closer with a crooked finger. He's become a fixture in my Friday nights, a man shackled by matrimony and fatherhood. He finds his escape in the confines of my embrace. He spins tales of late nights at the office, all to keep a roof over his family's head, but it's my bed he warms, not theirs.

Victor's routine is as predictable as it is tragic – a charade of overworked dedication while he's actually tangled in the sheets with me. We've been at this dance for over a year now. Ever since the birth of his first child, I know all too well that it ignited a desperation in him. Each Friday, this luxury suite becomes our world, every inch of it an altar to our forbidden escapades. I know every shadow, every soft spot on the mattress, just like I know the lines of escape in his eyes.

His mouth is on mine before I can even think to pull away. Kissing is too real, too personal—a line I hate crossing. But I don’t stop him. It’s easier to let him believe he’s got a piece of me. I close my eyes and pretend it’s just another job, just another night. My fingers, however, tell a different story. They deftly work at the fabric of his suit, undoing each button with practiced ease. The dissonance between my passive acceptance of his kiss and the active undressing is a dance I've mastered—a dance of detachment, where my body participates in a ritual that my mind remains aloof from.

"God, I've missed you," Victor pants as his hands find their way under the silky material of my camisole. His fingers are cold, an unexpected jolt that makes me flinch. "Sorry," he whispers as he breaks the kiss, but his eyes show no regret. The heat from his breath trails along the curve of my neck, a familiar prelude to the passion he's chasing.

I know this part of the song and dance. His movements will become more insistent, his breaths shallower as he's consumed by the heat between us. I know how this song ends, and I'll play the role I always do.

We strip down, skin against cold porcelain. The water roars on, but it’s the chill of the tiles that makes me shiver as he presses me against them. His lips trace a path down my back, a trail of warmth in a sea of cold, and I close my eyes, trying to feel something—anything—beyond the numbness. I can feel his erection pressed against my entrance from behind. I wish he would just get on with it, but I know he likes to take his time worshipping my body as If I was his only religion.

"Victor," I gasp. "You're such a tease."

He grunts in response, his mouth finding the soft spot at the base of my neck and sucking down hard, making my whole-body arch.

I can feel him slide inside me slowly, inch by inch, taking his time. He knows I am most vulnerable when my body responds without the restraint I put on my thoughts.

"Oh, fuck, you feel so good," Victor moans into my neck. "You're perfect." I push back onto him, wanting more. He grabs my hips and starts thrusting harder, deeper, the water sloshing over the edge of the tub. We both cry out in ecstasy, our bodies moving together, losing ourselves in the moment. My thoughts begin to wander. Is this what it would be like if I met a man I could love? Could anyone ever make me feel something real? Would I even let them? Victor’s fingers dig into my skin, grounding me in the moment, but my mind drifts, wondering, wishing. It’s not him I want. It’s the life I almost had before it all went sideways, the one where love wasn’t just another transaction.