Undressed By His Arrogance

Sylvia arrived at the construction site. The sun was high in the sky but the site was still buzzing—cranes humming, steel beams clanking, men shouting over equipment. Dust filled the air.

She hadn’t slept. Not on the flight from Canada. Not in the taxi. Not even during the long, miserable hours on the airport bench when her mind replayed every bad decision she had ever made. Elizabeth needed her parents together. That truth had attacked her relentlessly until it drove her into the plane. Evans could argue. He could disapprove. He could rant. But Sylvia was done sitting on the sidelines of her own life.

And Winn...

He still wasn’t picking her calls.

He wasn’t at the office. Reese’s number had been busy. She hoped she would find him at the site.

She stepped onto the gravel paths of the construction site, weaving between workers hauling materials. And then she saw Ivy.

She lifted her hand in a small wave.

Ivy’s head snapped toward her. Her eyes widened—lit up.

Ivy broke into a grin and practically jogged toward her. "Oh my God, look at you!" she laughed, pulling Sylvia into a hug.

Sylvia melted into it before she could stop herself.

"Syl! My God! Where have you been?" Ivy exclaimed.

"Haven’t been in the country for a while now," Sylvia managed. She pulled back, brushing a strand of hair from her face, trying not to show how much the welcome rattled her emotionally. "Is my brother here?"

"No," Ivy said, hands on her hips now, scanning the site as if Winn might magically materialize from behind a bulldozer. "I haven’t seen him today. Haven’t seen him in a while. Hey!—" her face lit up suddenly, "I got engaged."

Sylvia blinked, then smirked. "Yeah, I heard. Bummer for Winn though. You know he still loves you."

"Let’s not talk about that," she said quickly. "Come on. I’ll show you around."

"I have to find Winn," Sylvia insisted.

"I’m sure he’ll be here soon. Come on." Ivy looped her arm around Sylvia’s and tugged her gently forward.

Ivy led her around the perimeter of the property—an impressive spread of half-risen foundations. Men in hard hats moved with purpose, the whole site buzzing.

*****

Winn kept dialing Evans and Ivy simultaneously, switching between calls. But neither of them were picking up. The longer the silence stretched, the more feral his frustration became. His leg bounced uncontrollably, jaw flexing.

Reese sped through the streets—weaving through cars, braking hard, accelerating harder.

Winn cursed under his breath and jabbed at his phone again.

He inhaled sharply and pressed Sam’s contact. He didn’t want to drag the man into panic unless absolutely necessary—but Ivy’s safety wasn’t optional.

The phone rang once—twice—

"Pick up," he muttered. "Come on, Sam, pick up."

On the third ring, Sam answered.

Winn exhaled sharply.

"Sam! Sam! Can you reach Ivy’s bodyguard?!"

"Hello to you too!" Sam drawled. "Kids... no manners."

"Sam! Focus." Winn snapped. "Do you have her bodyguard’s number?"

A soft snort. "Of course I do."

"Call him right now," Winn demanded, leaning forward in the seat as if that would somehow move Sam faster. "Tell him to get Ivy to safety now!!! Sam, please."

"I understand," Sam said, and for the first time his voice wasn’t teasing. It was clipped, deadly calm.

The line went dead.

Winn let out a breath. He closed his eyes for a second, pressing his forehead to his clasped hands.

Please let Sam reach her.

Please let Sam reach her now.

Please.

He wasn’t a praying man, but right now? He prayed to anything with ears.

Reese kept speeding, weaving between cars.

*****

Sharona was done.

Finally, beautifully, deliciously done.

She’d spent the morning preparing every thread of her escape: false documents, cash.

Just one final task remained.

One last bite of skin before she vanished.

After that, she’d be on a jet headed straight to the UAE. Somewhere warm, luxurious, and blissfully free of extradition treaties.

Ivy was her last loose end.

Her clients had been clear:

The girl had become a liability.

Sharona stepped out of her Ferrari with a feline stretch. The wind swept around her, carrying the scent of dust, machinery, and sweat from the construction site. It wasn’t her scene—she preferred places where men’s wallets opened faster than their mouths.

She scanned the sprawling property. Workers swarmed. She looked painfully out of place.

Her fingers brushed the gun hidden in her purse.

Her eyes tracked upward to the craning cranes.

So many ways to die here.

So many accidents waiting to happen.

The irony made her laugh under her breath.

She had never once visited this place despite being Winn’s wife for over a year.

This was Winn’s pride. Would be poetic if the woman he loved died there, wouldn’t it?

She began walking slowly across the site.

Some men stopped to stare. She winked at one just to unsettle him. He nearly dropped the steel rod he was carrying.

"Men," she breathed, amused. "So easy."

When Tom first approached her with the project, Sharona remembered thinking it was too juicy, too perfectly twisted to reject. A high-risk job with a high-reward finish. Ivy had been nothing more than a small, irritating complication. A piece on the board to be removed so the real players could move freely.

Now, that same Ivy had become the reason everything was falling apart at the seams.

As a feminist herself, Sharona was impressed. But if you want to mess with the big dogs, be ready to lose a huge chunk of your flesh.

She had Tom wrapped around her finger from the moment she discovered his dirt. She’d gotten his secrets the way she got everything else—by being smarter, colder, and infinitely more patient. So while she would be away in the UAE, Tom would handle getting her the Orchard money. She didn’t care how he did it but the rest of the plan was up to him now.

The plan was immaculate. A masterpiece.

Every step calculated.

Except at the last minute, Peter had chickened. Sharona could still hear the pathetic quiver in his voice.

Coward.

And now she had to step in personally, because time had evaporated. Her exit window was closing. Her jet was fueled and waiting. Her clients expected results. If Ivy survived another hour, Sharona’s entire future would burn to ash.

There was no more waiting.

No backup plan.

No second chances.

Her hand tightened around the purse at her side, feeling the cold, elegant weight of the silenced pistol nestled within.

No one would see her coming but the bitch who needed to go.

Sharona’s hips swayed confidently as she moved deeper into the site.

She approached one of the workers.

"Is Miss Morales here?" Sharona asked sweetly.

The worker swallowed, visibly thrown off by the beautiful, overdressed stranger standing in the middle of a dusty construction zone.

"Uh... yeah," he said. "Just walk down ahead. You’ll have to take one of the little cabbies though."

Sharona’s eyes flicked toward the industrial carts parked along the gravel path—boxy, battered, completely beneath her.

"Just right down here?" Sharona asked, lifting a brow as she pointed toward the row of gravel paths.

"Yeah," the worker confirmed, still eyeing her.

Sharona rewarded him with a grateful smile—a slow, sultry curl of the lips that made the poor man’s breath hiccup. Then she pivoted sharply and clicked her way back to her Ferrari.

She slid inside the car.

She drove slowly, letting the car crawl forward.

Hunting pace.

Her gaze sliced through the chaos of the construction site. Her fingers curled around the pistol inside her purse.

Her heartbeat didn’t change.

Her breath didn’t quicken.

Killing Ivy, for Sharona, was simply another appointment on her calendar.

******

It happened like reality suddenly lagged.

One moment, Sylvia was standing beside Ivy, gesturing passionately with her hands, trying—practically pleading—to convince Ivy that her engagement was a monumental mistake. Ivy kept laughing nervously, waving her off, insisting she knew what she was doing.

And then—

Chaos cracked the air open.

First came the ripping, animal screech of a Ferrari engine braking abruptly yet still sliding forward.

Ivy barely had time to flinch before the next sound hit.

Ivy’s bodyguard was only a few feet away. He threw his phone to the ground, right after the call from Sam with a violent shatter, hand flying to his holster. His lips peeled back in a roar that shook Sylvia’s bones.

"DOWN! IVY, GET DOWN—NOW!"

Everything exploded at once.

Sylvia’s head snapped toward the sound, and she saw the unmistakable glint of polished metal. Her stomach plummeted.

Sharona.

That evil smile curled behind the rolled-down window of the Ferrari, eyes locked on Ivy. The gun was already raised. The sun caught the silencer.

Time fractured.

Sylvia’s breath punched out of her chest. Every instinct she had—every mistake she’d ever made, every love she had ever lost, every stupid argument she and Winn ever had—compressed into a single heartbeat.

(I don’t know if I got the suspense right. This is my first time writing a scene like this. There were too many things happening at once the way I pictured it in my head, at the same time trying to capture the emotions. But well... I hope you get the picture)