C10 The Unforgivable

“Baby,” Cleopatra muttered under her breath, fury simmering through every fiber of her being.

“How dare you?” she shouted, her voice sharp with restrained rage.

“I… I apologize,” Anthony murmured, his voice subdued and unsteady. “If calling you baby displeased you, it was never my intention.”

His gaze lowered, lashes casting faint shadows as his eyes drooped, the apology weighted with quiet remorse and unspoken restraint.

The word struck her like a thunderclap, reverberating deep in her chest. Anthony, someone who had never once offered an apology, now spoke with an ease that felt almost alien, his fingers brushing lightly against her arms as he guided her to sit. The warmth of his presence lingered, slow and deliberate, as he settled beside her, close enough that she could feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat.

“What is this?” she spat, suspicion lacing every word. “Why are you suddenly acting nice?”

“I know I hurt you the last time we saw each other,” he murmured, his voice low, heavy with an unfamiliar regret. “I shouldn’t have hit you. Or…” His words faltered, restrained in a way that made her skin crawl.

He reached for a wine bottle on the table, poured a measure into a glass, and extended it toward her. His hand trembled, ever so slightly, as though the gesture itself was a plea. His eyes searched hers vulnerable, pleading, silently asking for forgiveness.

“Trying to intoxicate me so you can have your way with me?” Her voice was sharp, venomous, each word cutting deep. “I’m not even surprised, you’ve attempted this before.” She leaned back instinctively, arms folding over her chest as her eyes flared with raw disgust. “You haven’t forgotten that, have you?”

The glass wavered in his grip, hovering for a tense beat before he slammed it onto the table. The sharp clatter echoed, leaving the room suspended in a moment of raw exposure. For an instant, Anthony looked human, stripped of the control he so carefully wielded, almost ridiculous in his discomposure.

“Hmm,” he murmured, a twitch running through his fingers as they rested on his knees.

Then came the words that made her blood boil:

“It was an unsuccessful attempt so it doesn’t count.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief. In an instant, she sprang to her feet, fists clenched, eyes blazing with fire. “So now you think you can just make it work, you—?!”

The words tore from her throat, raw and unrestrained, leaving no doubt about the fury consuming her. Every inch of her being burned with its rage, disgust, and the sharp sting of betrayal.

On impulse, she stepped back, her movements sharp, deliberate. But Anthony surged forward, dropping to one knee before her. Her hand curled at her side, trembling with anger she could no longer contain.

“Please Cleo,” he said, his voice low, almost fractured. “Let’s just forget what happened and start over.”

“Forget?” Her laugh was bitter, sharp, and void of humor. “After everything? After you—” She bit back a cry of rage. “You almost raped me. You thought it was justified. And now you expect me to forgive? To act as if it never happened?”

For the first time, he was silent. And in that silence, she saw hesitation. Vulnerability. The man who once would have struck without thought now looked fragile, almost human. Her chest tightened, and for a fleeting moment, confusion rooted her to the spot.

She wrenched her hand free and spun to leave. But he was faster. Anthony’s grip closed around her arm like iron, halting her in her tracks. The force of him unyielding, unrelenting made her pulse hammer against her ribs.

“I said I’m sorry!” he shouted, eyes blazing with a violent, red-hot intensity that pinned her in place.

Disgust churned in her stomach. She tried to turn away, to step free, to ignore him entirely but he lunged. Pressing her into a forceful kiss, he tried to close the distance between them. Panic surged through her; she fought back with every ounce of strength, teeth gritted, hands pushing, body twisting against him.

Finally, he released her.

Without thought, Cleopatra’s hand lashed out, striking him across the face. The sharp crack of her slap reverberated through the room, leaving a suffocating, charged silence in its wake.

Anthony’s chest heaved, a hand rising to his cheek. For a heartbeat, neither moved.

Then the air thickened, taut with unspoken rage, unbridled desire, and something far more dangerous something neither of them could yet name.

“Don’t you dare press your filthy lips against mine!” she spat, the words sharp as shattered glass, and walked away, never once glancing over her shoulder.

The sofa groaned beneath Anthony’s weight as he sank into it, mind a turbulent storm. His thoughts collided violently, muttered under his breath, ragged and bitter:

“Guinevere she was right. Damn it she was right.”

He raked a hand through his hair, the movement abrupt and restless, as though trying to wrest some sense from the chaos in his chest. “Even with her serving me she’s untouchable. Completely beyond my control. Where the hell did that confidence come from?”

Frustration clawed at him, raw and unrelenting. With a harsh exhale, he downed glass after glass of wine, the burn in his throat failing to dull the fire inside, and stormed from the room, leaving the air thick and suffocating with tension.

By the time he reached his car, Guinevere exploded from her hiding spot, heart hammering like a drum against her ribs.

Every movement radiated urgent concern, a desperate need to intercept him before he drove away, as though even a heartbeat of delay could tip the balance toward disaster.

“Anthony! How did it go? Did you manage to coax her?” Her voice trembled, a fragile thread laced with anxiety.

“Fuck!” Anthony’s foot slammed against the car, again and again, the sound echoing through the car park like rolling thunder. His chest rose and fell violently, eyes ablaze with uncontained fury. “She’s completely beyond my control!” Every word vibrated with frustration, rage, and the silent humiliation he refused to acknowledge.

Guinevere’s gasp morphed into a shout, disbelief and incredulity cutting through the tension like a blade. “What the hell do you mean she’s ‘beyond your control’?! Can’t you just use force on her, like you always do?!”

Anthony’s head snapped toward her. His eyes, sharp and unforgiving, sliced into hers, as though her single suggestion had struck a live wire beneath his skin. His every muscle tightened, a storm coiling into deadly potential.

“What did you just say?” His voice dropped into a low, deliberate growl smooth, lethal, each syllable dripping with a volatile mix of fury and disbelief, an undercurrent that made the air itself feel electric.

“Uh…” Guinevere stammered, her voice barely more than a whisper, fragile and trembling.

For the first time, she saw Anthony stripped of control. The composed, indomitable man she had always known whose mere presence commanded obedience was unraveling, shaken to his very core. His eyes, dark and stormy, fixed on her with a tension that felt as though it could snap at any moment.

The car park seemed to contract around them, the shadows stretching and coiling like living tendrils, pressing closer with a patient, watchful intent. Each heartbeat thundered in her chest, reverberating through her bones, as if the world itself had narrowed to the space between them.

And then Anthony stepped closer, his gaze so sharp, so charged, that it felt like it could cut through steel. Guinevere froze, breath caught in her throat, unable to move, as if the world itself had paused.

“What exactly are you trying to prove?”His growl was low now, a promise of consequences yet unspoken, and before she could answer, a sudden, sharp sound from outside made them both flinch.

Something or someone was coming.