🎨 Chapter 3: The Wild Widow and The Gilded Trap
Scarlett didn't wait for a reply. She crouched down, her knees hitting the wet pavement. Her fingers trembled uncontrollably as she scooped her lace armor from the cold, oily London mud. The delicate red fabric was now stained with grit—a perfect metaphor for her dignity.
When Jeremy's shadow loomed over her, blocking out the streetlamp, she bristled like a cornered cat.
"What I wear is none of your damn business, Jeremy. Are we even close enough for you to stare?"
Jeremy didn't flinch. He didn't back away. Instead, a slow, predatory smile played on his lips. He lifted his hand, where he had hooked her red lace thong onto his index finger. He twirled it slowly, watching the translucent fabric catch the dim light.
"So, we're strangers now?" His voice was low, teasing, and dangerously intimate. "You leave your... personal effects on the street, and I'm the bad guy for picking them up? Come on, Scarlett. For old time's sake, let me give you a ride. You look… fragile."
"I have legs."
Scarlett snatched the thong from his finger, the friction of their skin sending a jolt of unwanted heat through her hand. She stuffed the ruined lingerie into her pocket and yanked the zipper of her suitcase with savage force.
It barely held. Dragging the heavy, mangled bag to a nearby stone bench, she slumped down, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She had no choice. She dialed the only lifeline she had left.
"Candy… it's me. I'm on the street. Can I crash with you?"
The response was instantaneous, but strange. A series of breathless, rhythmic gasps echoed through the receiver.
"Oh… ah… Scarlett? No—no problem! Ah—! The sky could fall… and Big Sister would… oh God—!"
Scarlett pulled the phone away, frowning. "Candy, what are you doing?"
"Treadmill!" Candy panted, her voice straining with an almost painful effort. "This speed is… ah… too fast! Just get over here. I'll… I'll take care of you."
🏥 The House of Wild Widows
Thirty minutes later, Scarlett's taxi pulled up to a red-brick townhouse in Chelsea. It wasn't the loud, flashy wealth of a nouveau riche mansion; it was the quiet, suffocating elegance of old money.
Scarlett paid the driver with her last few pounds and dragged her broken suitcase to the porch.
"Candy—?"
The heavy front door was unlocked, slightly ajar. Scarlett pushed it open.
The air inside was thick, almost humid. It smelled of expensive sandalwood aromatherapy candles, mixed with something far more primal, muskier, and undeniably biological: sweat.
Scarlett lugged her suitcase up the carpeted stairs. Thump. Thump. The house was too quiet, yet vibrating with an unseen energy.
She stopped at the master bedroom. The door was cracked open just an inch.
A low, guttural moan drifted out, freezing Scarlett in her tracks. Her breath hitched. Through the sliver of space, she saw them.
On the massive king-sized bed, a man with skin the color of dark chocolate and muscles that glistened like polished mahogany was pinning a figure into the white sheets. It was Malik, the personal trainer Candy had mentioned—a beast of a man.
Beneath him, her red hair fanning out like a wildfire, was Candy—Scarlett's flirtatious, widowed sister—drowning in unabandoned ecstasy. Her nails dug into his back, leaving red welts on his dark skin.
"Malik… no… slow down! My sister is coming! It's not good if she sees!" Candy moaned, even as she arched her back to meet him.
Malik didn't stop. He grinned, revealing distinctively white teeth against his dark skin. His smile was unmasked, wicked, and terrified Scarlett to her core.
"Your sister? The virgin artist?" Malik panted, his voice a deep rumble. "I heard she's a sweet, innocent little thing… She looks like she'd taste delicious."
Scarlett felt a wave of nausea mixed with shock. He was talking about her like she was a dessert on a menu.
Candy's protective instinct finally flared through the haze of lust. She tried to shove his massive chest away. "Trash! Don't you dare think about my sister! She is off-limits!"
Malik easily pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. He leaned down, his deep voice carrying through the door crack and drilling straight into Scarlett's ears outside.
"Baby, just imagine it. A hot, fiery widow and a watery, pure artist. If we locked the door and kept it all in the family… wouldn't that be a beautiful picture?"
"Get out! Don't dirty my ears!"
With a burst of adrenaline, Candy's legs snapped up. She kicked the massive Malik straight off the bed.
"Don't be like that." Malik rolled off the carpet, laughing as he pounced back onto the mattress. "I know you can't leave me. Look at this city, Candy. Who else in London can make you scream like this?"
🧥 The Gilded Trap
Outside the door, the handle of Scarlett's overworked suitcase finally gave up the ghost.
THUD.
The heavy bag hit the floor. The sound was like a gunshot in the sexually charged silence.
"Oh, God! Scarlett, baby, is that you?!"
Candy didn't care about nudity anymore. Moments later, she burst out of the room, wrapped haphazardly in a silk sheet, her face a mask of frantic apology.
"I—I thought you'd be later!"
Scarlett had already retreated to the stairs, her face burning. "I was just… passing by. I didn't see anything."
"Stop!" Candy ran down the stairs barefoot, ignoring the silk sheet slipping down her shoulder. She vanished into a walk-in closet and returned seconds later, her arms overflowing with luxury goods.
"Take these! You silly girl."
Candy shoved a pile into Scarlett's arms: A new Burberry canvas tote, a pair of Jimmy Choo heels in her exact size, and a professional Winsor & Newton art supply kit—the kind that cost a month's rent.
"This is my fault for not picking you up," Candy said, hugging her tight. Scarlett could smell Malik's cologne and sex on her sister's skin. It was suffocating. "If you're unhappy out there, or if you need money, you come back to Big Sister. Do you hear me?"
Scarlett nodded, tears pricking her eyes. "Thank you, Candy."
Carrying the weight of five thousand pounds worth of gifts, but with nowhere to sleep, Scarlett walked out of the townhouse community and into the cold night.
The wind bit through her thin coat. She stood on the curb, clutching the art supplies like a lifeline.
She didn't get far.
A sleek, silver-grey Bentley glided silently to a halt in front of her. The tinted window rolled down slowly, revealing Jeremy's face.
He looked perfectly at home in the leather interior—gentle, refined, and utterly haunting. His amber eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze swept over the luxury goods in her arms, then to her flushed cheeks.
He seemed to deduce exactly what had just happened inside that hormone-filled house.
The corners of his mouth lifted. It wasn't a smile of kindness; it was the smile of a fisherman who just saw the bobber sink.
"Get in, Scarlett."
He threw out a lure coated in poison and sugar.
"I've made a decision. I'm going to make you the most famous erotic artist in London. But first… you need to show me what you've learned today."