C9 Not the Woman You Owned

The weekend had arrived once more, and Ana was in full swing, relentlessly grilling Cleopatra about why she had splurged on an entire set of beauty products. Her barrage of questions, sharp and unyielding, came to an abrupt halt the moment the door swung open. Mrs. Rosetta stepped inside, her presence commanding enough to silence the room instantly.

Mrs. Rosetta’s gaze softened, pity flickering in her eyes as they landed on Cleopatra. She hesitated for a heartbeat, the silence stretching just long enough to make the moment heavy. Then, her voice broke through gentle, almost hesitant. “Mr. Anthony is here.”

Cleopatra understood immediately the weight of those words. She had been claimed exclusively by Anthony, forced, branded, and reduced to a possession in a past life but she was no longer a passive figure in his narrative. Beneath her composed exterior, a calculated fury simmered, precise and unrelenting. She excused herself with quiet poise, moving with deliberate grace as she prepared a tray, placing each drink and delicacy with meticulous care, as though arranging the opening act of a carefully orchestrated vengeance.

When the arrangement was complete, she guided the cart toward one of the most lavish VIP rooms, the very room Anthony had reserved, her heartbeat steady, her mind razor-sharp, every step echoing with the silent promise of retribution.

At the threshold, Cleopatra paused just long enough to steady her breathing. Without hesitation, she closed her fingers around the handle, pushed the door open, and guided the service cart inside with practiced composure.

Her gaze met Anthony’s.

He reclined with unstudied ease, draped in a limited-edition white designer sleeveless shirt razor-clean lines, exclusive cut paired with custom trousers crafted for a man who never repeats a look. The tiger tattoo along his right arm was impossible to miss, a deliberate, permanent mark etched for her alone. A Grande cigar rested between his fingers, smoke spiraling upward with lazy precision, as though even the air understood it was moving within his domain.

To anyone unfamiliar with him, he might have appeared composed, almost disarmingly calm. Cleopatra knew the truth. That serenity concealed something lethal.

“Hello, Cleo,” he said evenly, his eyes never leaving her.

She offered no response.

Instead, she approached the table and arranged its contents with deliberate precision, her movements unhurried and exacting. Each second stretched taut, laden with provocation. When she finally turned to face him, her gaze locked onto his cold, unwavering, and unmistakably contemptuous. In that single look, she rendered him insignificant.

“Are you planning to stare holes through my face?” she said coolly, her voice edged with disdain. “Your order has been delivered. If you require anything further, you know which unit to contact.”

She turned to leave, her stride controlled and purposeful.

His hand closed around her wrist.

The grip was sudden, authoritative, unyielding.

The room fell into a charged stillness.

“Why are you behaving this way?” Anthony asked, his voice low, sharpened by icy authority. “Have you forgotten how you are meant to conduct yourself in my presence?”

The present fractured.

Cleopatra’s consciousness was violently dragged backward, torn from the moment as memories surged forth relentlessly, unforgivingly. The room blurred, the air thickened, and the weight of the past crashed down upon her.

She remembered her past life and how Anthony had never loved her freely. His affection had always come wrapped in control, devotion twisted into possession, until she was no more than something he claimed, something caged under the guise of love.

Now, as fate dragged her back into the past, those memories resurfaced with chilling clarity.

“I’ve missed you these past couple of weeks,” Anthony said softly. His voice was smooth, almost gentle, the same deceptive warmth that had once made her believe in him. “Business has been insane. Those bastards did everything they could to slow me down.” His gaze lingered on her, unblinking, calculating. “Tell me did you serve anyone while I was gone? I paid for you. You were mine, exclusively.”

The tenderness in his tone was a carefully crafted lie. Beneath it coiled something far darker in possession, sharp and suffocating. A chill slid down her spine, settling heavily in her chest.

“Why… why would you go that far?” she whispered. Fear trembled through her voice, tangled with disbelief, each word forcing its way past her tightening throat.

“Because I love you.” His smile curved slowly, dangerously. “So deeply.” He stepped closer, his hand settling at her waist, fingers firm claiming rather than touching. “Ever since we reunited, you’ve been living in my head. I can’t let you go.”

His grip tightened, subtle but deliberate a reminder she knew all too well.

“You’re irresistible,” he murmured. “And irreplaceable.”

Her pulse spiked, loud enough to drown out her thoughts. She rose abruptly to her feet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Her voice trembled not with weakness, but with fury barely contained.

Anthony’s gaze hardened. His hand closed around her wrist and forced her back onto the lounge sofa. The movement was sharp, practiced.

“You really know how to provoke me,” he said coldly. “Sit still.”

Panic flared instantly. Cleopatra knew that tone. She knew what followed if she hesitated if she failed to act. Every past visit had carved the lesson into her bones.

Her eyes flicked to the stainless-steel bowl on the table, ice floating in silent suspension.

She grabbed it and swung.

Freezing water splashed, metal clattered.

The sudden shock made him falter not enough to release her, but enough.

She ran.

Her pulse hammered in her ears as she darted toward the door. Every step felt like defiance, every heartbeat a countdown to freedom.

He was faster.

His hands shot out, gripping her shoulders with unyielding force, and slammed her forward against the door with a sickening crack. The sharp crack of impact reverberated through the room. The air was wrenched from her lungs, and she crumpled to the floor, gasping.

Pain flared at her scalp as his fingers tangled in her hair, dragging her across the cold marble tiles. Each movement stripped away the remnants of her strength, leaving her trembling and acutely aware of her vulnerability. Yet beneath the fear, a spark of determination burned she would not yield.

Anthony dropped into the couch, pulling her upright by the hair with a controlled, deliberate motion, forcing her to sit. Leaning forward, he lifted a hand and let it hover just above her, a suspended threat, precise, measured. The hesitation between them carried more weight than any strike could.

“Why do you insist on making things so difficult?” he asked quietly. “Do you have any idea how many women would beg for my attention?”

His fingers tightened in her hair, pulling her head back until her neck strained. Tears blurred her vision, but she refused to look away.

“Behave,” he murmured.

Something in her fractured not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough.

She spat at him.

The silence that followed was brief.

He struck her without warning. Pain exploded across her face brutally, blinding, stealing the breath from her lungs and the strength from her knees. The world reeled violently, walls tilting as darkness bled into her vision, swallowing sound, sense, and dignity in one merciless instant.

Then nothing.

“Cleo.” Anthony’s voice cut through the fog of her thoughts, sharp and insistent, a blade against the quiet of her mind.

Even now, the memory crawled up her spine like ice, leaving a trail of unease in its wake. His words pressed against her consciousness with the weight of his presence, as if he were standing there, watching, breathing down her neck, every movement deliberate, every glance a silent claim.

“Please… please, just sit with me.” he muttered

She felt his grip on her wrist loosen, slow and precise, a reluctant concession heavy with guilt and regret. His eyes, dark and storm-stormy, yet carrying a glimmer of something almost human, searched hers as if silently pleading for understanding.

Every measured movement carried a weight she could not escape a subtle, relentless reminder of a love she once held for him, even as fear and resentment tightened their grip around her chest, sharp, suffocating, and unyielding.

She had wanted to resist. She had wanted to run. But even in that moment, part of her had hesitated, caught between the memory of his power and the faint, confusing trace of something that had once called itself love.

“Baby,” Anthony whispered, his voice smooth and rich, like milk drizzled with honey.

Anthony’s eyes were fixed, unblinking, and blissful in that very moment.