Part One:
All This Dior, All This War | Kylian Mbappé
Summary: Absence doesn’t soften her, it makes her cruel. Four weeks, two continents and a thousand missed calls. While Kylian was chasing goals across the ocean, she was drowning in Dior fittings and empty messages. Now she punishes him with couture and cold smiles, turning a Michelin-star dinner into a battlefield where luxury masks war. Part One is appetite and attitude.
Word Count: 9000+
Author’s Note: Thank you to my dearest O for harassing me daily to write this. It’s been a pleasure and joy to write something with character, buildup and heart. My favourite story so far. Love you! Part Two out soon…
Tag List: @ayeshami @masn-mount enjoy my loves!! Let me know if you want to be added. 💓
All This Dior, All This War.
He was supposed to arrive at noon.
But of course, it’s well past three when the door finally opens.
You don’t look up. You hear it, the soft click, the low drag of his suitcase wheels against the threshold, the muted thud of the door closing behind him. Even the sigh he exhales is heavy, like it has travelled continents.
The smell of travel clings to the air, recycled airplane oxygen, aftershave dulled by hours in transit. There’s the faint sound of his watch chain hitting the edge of his carry-on handle. His movements are sluggish, not careless but weighted, as if his body hasn’t yet realised it’s home.
Kylian Mbappé, returned from the other side of the world.
You stay exactly where you are.
Perched on the armrest of the fur chair in the hallway. The one angled just enough toward the mirror to catch your reflection if you want it, one leg crossed over the other, phone in hand. Scrolling with slowness.
You know he sees you before you greet him, if you can call what you do next a greeting.
You don’t stand, don’t rise, don’t even offer a glance. You hold your pose in white like a sculpture of wrath. Unbothered. Unapologetic. And God, you know you look good.
That’s the point.
The dress is paper-thin, satin and sin, poured over your hips and stitched so tightly it feels like you’re naked. The neckline dips low, dangerous, the hem stops just high enough to make legs feel endless. Skin like warm caramel under the hallway’s gold light, your mouth painted the exact shade that made the cover of Vogue Italia last month. Not a single hair out of place, lashes curled and ready for their close-up.
You are a vision. You are a warning.
You’re dressed for a dinner you never planned to attend.
You’re dressed for a man you no longer intend to indulge.
And it works.
He hasn’t said a word yet, but you feel it, the way his gaze pins to you, lingers, refuses to blink. The heat of it reaches you before his footsteps do.
You keep scrolling.
“Hey,” he says finally. His voice is hoarse. Thicker than you remember, jet lag or guilt, you don’t care which.
You glance up, tilting your head, letting your gaze skim him briefly before landing back on your phone. “Oh.” It sounds more like a breath than a greeting.
Kylian lets out a low, unsure laugh. “That’s it?”
You raise a brow, still not giving him your eyes for long. “What else were you expecting?”
You tap your phone shut, sliding it into your clutch with elegance, still withholding a smile.
He starts walking toward you. Slowly. His gaze drags over you like a man cataloguing a priceless painting he hasn’t seen in months and isn’t sure he’s allowed to touch.
“I missed you,” he says, quiet, almost shy as though saying it too loud might shatter something fragile between you.
“Mm,” you hum. “Nice to know.”
He stops in front of you, close enough that the fabric of his travel jacket brushes your knee. His fingers twitch, betraying him. Maybe they want your waist, maybe your cheek, maybe to map the curve of your spine the way they’ve done a thousand times before.
But you rise before they get the chance. Slow. Like honey sliding from a spoon. And his hands drop uselessly to his sides.
“Don’t touch. You’ll wrinkle the fabric.” You dust invisible lint from your shoulder.
Kylian’s brows draw together faintly. “It’s just a dress, ma chérie.”
“Mm, well. You’ve missed quite a lot lately. You don’t get this one,” you say, already turning away.
You walk toward the mirror near the door, the antique gilt-framed one you had imported from Paris, and let the distance between you hum with static.
You stop in front of your reflection. Adjust your lipstick with the pad of your finger. Tuck a strand of hair that doesn’t need tucking. Tilt your head and take in the full picture: the dress, the glow, the body that agencies fight over and magazines chase.
You are everything the world wants to be.
And right now, he doesn’t get to have it.
“Is this because I didn’t call enough?” He asks from behind you. His voice has shifted, softer, coaxing, but you hear the undercurrent of frustration.
You meet your own eyes in the mirror. “Didn’t call. Didn’t reply. Didn’t care.” You smile sweetly, sugar on cyanide. “But I’m sure you were so busy.” You let the last part taunt.
He takes a step closer, the reflection bringing him into frame behind you. His voice stays warm, too warm, doing that thing where he tries to soothe when you want him rattled.
“I was playing four games in two weeks,” he says gently. “Travel, media, timezones—”
“Yeah. I know.” You cut him off before he can find sympathy. “That’s why I didn’t go, remember? I had my own shit too.”
You meet his eyes in the mirror now, finally letting him have the full weight of your gaze.
“Shoots. Events. Runways. And still… I made time.”
The air between you tightens, the reflection showing both of you perfectly. The poised, untouchable woman in white, and the man behind her who suddenly looks like he’s realising just how far away she’s been.
Kylian’s gaze drops to the floor, jaw flexing once. Twice, “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t important.”
“Didn’t you?” Your voice is light, but the snort that follows is sharp enough to cut.
Silence.
He looks at you like a man trying to read a book he’s certain he’s read before, only to find the language has changed. Same cover, same title, only a different meaning. Every page is out of reach.
When he tries again, it’s with a soft, tentative palm brushing the side of your hip. His touch is warm, aching in its hesitation, thumb just starting to curve inward and you step out of reach like it burns.
“Don’t,” you warn.
His head tilts. “You don’t want me to touch you?” His voice has dropped an octave, low enough to slide under your skin if you let it.
“Want and deserve are different things.” You glance at him through the mirror, the reflection catching the faint crease between his brows.
There’s that pause again. That little stretch of air where you almost dare him to break, to grab you, pin you, remind you he’s selfish enough to claim what he’s been missing. But no. Kylian nods, eyes flicking down, masking whatever heat you’re sure still burns beneath the surface. Controlled. Always so goddamn poised.
It makes you furious.
You turn, the flick of your hair floats, a strand hitting his nose, and you reach for your clutch resting on the console.
“Where are you going?” His voice follows you, eyes tracking every step like you’re a ghost already fading from view.
“None of your business.” You slide the strap over your wrist with elegance, your shrug casual enough to sting.
“That’s new.” His brow twitches, the closest he’s come to showing a crack.
You walk to the door. He doesn’t move to block you, doesn’t test you. That makes you even madder.
Your hand is on the handle when he says your name, low, heavy, as if the weight of it could anchor you. You sleek your hair back once more, ignoring the slight tremor in your gut.
“You look beautiful,” he says finally.
You pause. Just for a moment.
The dress is punishment. But his voice… his voice is not.
“I know.”
You don’t look back.
And then you leave.
You get the text just after your fourth fitting. Simple. Cold.
Dinner. 8PM. Dior will send your dress.
You laugh. Out loud.
The stylist jumps at the sudden sound, her hand faltering mid-pin. The prick catches your hip, a sting above the lace edge of the lingerie you’ve been cycling under these gowns. You don’t flinch.
Of course he’d text like that. Like he’s still in control. Like the past month didn’t strip him of the right to command your time, let alone your wardrobe.
You stare at the message again. Short. Clean. Impersonal.
No, Missed you.
No, Can’t wait to see you.
No, I’m sorry.
Just dinner. Like it’s a peace offering plated medium-rare. You almost consider not going.
Almost.
The assistant crouched at your feet is fussing with the hemline now, whispering to the head stylist in a language you don’t bother following. French? Spanish? English? They all sound the same these days. Your eyes are caught on your own reflection in the full-length mirror.
Studio lighting halos you in warmth. One leg folded under the other on the leather chaise, posture relaxed but spine straight enough to remind everyone in the room that this is your moment.
Your cheekbones are cut sharp under the lights, jaw kissed with bronzer, lashes so long they cast shadows over your upper cheeks. The soft nude gloss catches when you press your lips together.
The gown you’re in now, floor-length silk in the exact shade of champagne that flatters your skin like molten gold, drapes like water over your body, pooling gently on the studio floor. The fitted corsetry frames your breasts without needing to reveal, the cut strategic in its elegance.
You look like a fucking goddess.
And that’s when you know you’ll go.
Not because you want to see him. But because sometimes the best punishment is proximity.
Let him see what he’s been ignoring. Let him remember what he hasn’t been touching. Let him suffer.
Let the world see it too.
You shift slightly, letting the gown catch the light as the photographer snaps a few reference shots. Someone offers you a glass of water. Another hovers with a tray of canapés. The seamstress asks if you’re comfortable; you tell her to tighten the waist another half-inch. You want the silhouette snatched.
Because if Kylian wants you at dinner, he’s going to get the most untouchable, high-gloss version of you.
You imagine it already, the way his eyes will travel, the way he’ll want to touch, the way you’ll step out of reach.
A different dress is brought forward for the final try of the afternoon. Burgundy red Dior, the one you know he’s seen on the runway before. Slit high enough to be scandalous, neckline sculpted to frame your collarbones like fine art.
The stylist says it’s meant for next week’s show in Milan. You tell her to post it online and find another dress for that show.
You recline back into the chair while they prepare it, thumbing lazily through your phone again. The text still sits there, unopened to him, but replaying in your head.
You decide not to reply.
He’ll see you tonight.
And he’ll know exactly what he’s been missing.
You dress slowly. Purposefully. Like it’s ritual.
The dress waits for you on its own mannequin, center stage in the fitting room, under a halo of soft white light. Navy Dior, haute couture, the kind of gown that isn’t just worn, it’s wielded.
You remember the day he sent the request, months ago, back when conversation flowed and his voice didn’t sound like a stranger’s. Casual command, low over the phone:
“If you ever wear it for me, make it the navy one. The slit’s dangerous.”
And he was right.
The fabric drapes like a secret. Deep midnight silk that spills over your skin like poured ink, clinging where it should, gliding where it shouldn’t. It hugs the round of your hips, the taper of your waist, the small of your back like a lover’s possessive hand. The left slit slices high, nearly indecent, a vertical threat of bare leg that could bring any man to his knees, and he’ll see it first the second you step toward him.
The neckline is sculpted with precision. Low enough to skim the swell of your breasts, high enough to make him remember that mystery is always more dangerous. The corsetry underneath is boned and unrelenting, pushing your chest into a perfect curve, cinching your waist until the line of your silhouette looks sharpened.
The silver threads in the fabric glimmer faintly under the spotlights, never obvious, just enough to catch the eye when you move. Stars behind clouded glass.
You slip diamond studs into your ears, sharp, like daggers at either side of your face, and a thin necklace that glances off your collarbones when you tilt your head. Heels, black and high enough to weaponise. Hair swept back, your signature, clean and severe, exposing the whole line of your throat, your shoulders, every inch of skin he hasn’t been allowed to touch in weeks.
You look in the mirror.
And you laugh.
Because this is exactly what he likes. And you’re going to give it to him. Not as a gift.
As a blade.
Obedience in silhouette. Spite in every seam.
The Dior staff flood you with compliments as you step out of the fitting room, their voices lilting with Parisian admiration.
“C’est magnifique… incroyable…”
One of the assistants rushes forward to fuss with the hem, another to secure the slit so it falls just so. They don’t see the way your mouth curves like you’ve already won something.
“You look like royalty,” the head stylist says, eyes shining.
You tilt your head in thanks, your smile polite, the kind that hides more than it gives.
When you step outside, the room has already been cleared, the floor space empty except for the man waiting by the entrance. Black suit, black tie, black car idling at the curb.
One of Kylian’s.
You know his name. You’ve shared post-match champagne with him before. But tonight, you don’t bother. His gaze sweeps the gown, the heels, the diamonds, and he nods once, professional but too slow to hide the flicker of appreciation.
“Mademoiselle,” he greets.
You sweep past him without slowing. The cool evening air kisses your skin where the slit parts, the sound of your heels crisp against the pavement.
The car door is opened for you before you even reach it. You lower yourself into the leather seat without touching the frame, muscle memory from years of fittings and arrivals.
The silence is loud in here. The air smells faintly of his cologne, not yours, his, and the leather is cool against your bare thigh. You cross your legs, settle back, arms loose but posture regal.
It’s funny. All this protection. All this care.
Now.
After a month of radio silence.
After “Sorry, just landed.”
After “Talk later.”
Now, suddenly, you’re precious again.
You don’t even roll your eyes. Queens don’t need to. You sit back, the hum of the engine under you, and think about how proximity is the sharpest punishment of all.
He has no idea he’s about to lose the battle he thinks he’s winning.
The car glides to a stop like it knows better than to interrupt the moment.
Black paint gleaming, windows tinted to secrecy.
You can feel the weight of attention before you even step out. The subtle pause of passersby, the hush that falls when curiosity turns into recognition. Somewhere to your left, the faint click of a phone camera. The first of many.
It’s one of those places that doesn’t need to be named. No sign, no neon, no invitation, only marble, glass, and power. The kind of Michelin-starred rooftop you only find through whispered recommendations, where the staff glide like shadows and the menus are printed on gold.
The hostess greets you instantly, posture folding into a bow that feels more like deference than service. She murmurs something in Spanish about how guapísima you look, eyes wide with awe. You give her a polite smile, barely there, all ice and polish, and follow her through the golden-lit restaurant.
It’s all clinking crystal and low laughter, the scent of expensive cologne curling in the air. Every head turns when you pass. Not just men, women too, their gazes sharp, appraising, already thinking of which gossip column will get the photo first. Another click of a phone somewhere behind you. You don’t have to look to know your profile is perfect under this lighting.
The hostess leads you up the last set of stairs.
And the terrace opens before you like a curtain parting.
Madrid stretches beneath you in the full opulence of summer.
The skyline glows melting gold, rooftops kissed by the last light of sunset. Below, the city hums, oblivious to the war about to take place above it. White linen flutters on the tables, candles flicker against crystal, and strings of lights loop the terrace in a halo. The sky is impossibly clear, the first stars pinpricked in deep purple.
And then you see him.
Your pulse kicks, once. That’s all you give him.
Because fuck.
Kylian Mbappé looks like sex wrapped in war.
Black Dior tuxedo, tailored within a whisper of indecency, as though the fabric only clings because it wants to. Shirt undone enough to hint at collarbone and skin, gold watch winking against candlelight as he lifts a glass to his lips.
He’s lounged in his chair like he owns the skyline. Legs spread, elbow hooked over the armrest, chin angled in quiet challenge. A man entirely at ease, yet positioned dead center, forcing you to walk to him like you’ve been summoned.
And he’s watching you.
Not looking. Watching. Every inch of your slow approach. Every sway of your hips, every flick of your gaze toward the city, every shift in the air between you. There’s a slight twitch at his mouth, the ghost of a smirk he’s trying not to let you see.
You realise it all at once…
He’s playing the same game.
He’s made himself irresistible. Untouchable. Dangerous.
And he knows exactly what he’s doing.
You could fold. Right now.
You could end this performance in an instant, cut dinner short, drag him into the car, and let him fuck the silence out of you until Madrid disappears.
But not tonight.
Tonight is not for surrender. Tonight is for vengeance.
It’s for letting him feel what it’s like to be ignored.
Your chin lifts. Your steps lengthen. Every move is intentional, a slow parade of power in satin and skin. You’ve done this before, on runways but now, you don’t walk toward him, you let him watch you arrive. Let him remember what he’s been missing.
The terrace has gone quieter. You can feel eyes following you, whispers threading through wine glasses. Even those pretending not to stare are stealing glances.
And still, his gaze never leaves yours.
You stop just short of the table, the slit in your gown parting enough to bare the length of your thigh. His glass lowers, the gold of his watch catching the last of the sun.
“Bonsoir,” he says, standing just as you reach him.
The word is soft, low and vibrational, wrapped in the kind of French that feels like it was sharpened for you. Weaponised intimacy.
You don’t slow. You don’t soften.
Your gaze glances off his like water off glass as you glide past his reach and slide into the chair opposite him. One smooth motion, dress spilling like ink over the seat, the slit parting enough to remind him that you know exactly what you’re wearing.
He hesitates a fraction before lowering himself back into his chair. The candlelight catches the edge of his jaw as he leans back, one arm draped casually over the rest, the other curling around the stem of his glass.
“Right on time,” he murmurs. His eyes skim you like a scan. Neck to knee, slow, unapologetic. “You look…”
You lift a single brow, the barest tilt of your head daring him to finish.
“…untouchable,” he says at last.
“Good.” You unfold your napkin with surgical precision, settling it over your lap. “I dressed for war.”
A short chuckle escapes him, too smooth to be genuine. “Is that what this is?”
You don’t look at him as you reach for your wine, the stem cool between your fingers. “What else would it be?”
He watches you sip, his gaze fixed on your mouth. It’s the only part of you he lets himself touch, and only with his eyes. A beat passes. Then another.
You place the glass down, the faintest clink against crystal, and let your gaze finally meet his across the table. His eyes are darker than they were when you saw him from the terrace steps. It could be the night, the shadows pooling in the corners of his face. Or maybe it’s the curve of your mouth. Or maybe it’s the flicker of bare thigh the candlelight keeps catching.
“You’re angry,” he says quietly. Almost like an observation. Almost like an accusation.
You smile. Slow. Lethal. The kind that invites someone close to cut them deeper.
“Took you long enough to notice.”
His fingers twitch against his glass, like he might reach across the table. Like he might reclaim something. But you’re already leaning back, crossing your legs under the table, body angled away to make the distance between you feel like a chasm.
The battle begins long before the food arrives.
Knives in glances. Daggers in smiles.
You pick up the menu like you’re not already full on tension.
He picks up his drink like it’s not your neck he wants to wrap his hands around.
The waiter drifts over, murmuring specials in a hushed accent. You let him talk for far too long, like you’re truly considering the langoustine or the truffle risotto, like the decision is life and death. Kylian’s eyes are on you the whole time, but you don’t acknowledge him, not even when your heel brushes his ankle under the table.
When it’s his turn, he orders without glancing at the menu. “The Wagyu. Medium rare. And a bottle of the ’09 Château Margaux.”
Of course. You suppress a smirk into your wine. He’s flexing. He knows you know.
The waiter leaves. Silence stretches, broken only by the clink of ice in his glass as he leans forward, closer now. Voice a little rougher.
“So is this my punishment?”
You meet his eyes. Hold them. Then lean forward too, the slit of your dress parting for him to notice.
Your voice drops to a whisper, honey laced with venom.
“Oh, baby. You have no idea.”
The words hang between you like smoke, sweet, poisonous, promising ruin.
You go back to your wine like nothing happened, like you didn’t draw a line in the sand with your lipstick-stained mouth.
Kylian doesn’t speak right away. He studies you. Sits back, one arm draped over the chair, legs spread like he owns the terrace, like he owns the skyline beyond it. He takes a slow sip of bourbon, neat. The drink matches his mood, sharp, simmering.
Finally, he says, “you would’ve loved LA. First week was hectic…sponsors, press. But the weather was nice. Warm. Sunny. Like you.”
You hum without looking up. “So poetic. Did you come up with that yourself, or did Nike write it for you?”
The corners of his mouth twitch. Not quite a smile. He knows your claws. Knows they gleam sharpest when you’re wounded.
“Scored a brace against City,” he goes on, ignoring the jab. “Didn’t miss a penalty this time.”
“Proud of you,” you murmur, distracted. You pick up your phone and scroll with your thumb, letting your lips part in a bored little pout.
His jaw works. “Coach said it’s a promising start to the season.” He leans in, eyes narrowing, slightly. “Said I looked… hungry.”
“Mm.” You don’t even look up. “Must’ve been nice. To be fed.”
That lands. You feel it in the stillness that follows. He exhales through his nose, slow, controlled. Sits back again. Face unreadable.
Your food arrives. Yours, seared scallops glistening under a halo of butter and citrus and rice. His follows moments later, steak perfectly marbled. The plates are set, the waiter vanishes, and you cut into yours without a glance his way.
“How’s work?” He asks eventually, carving into the Wagyu like it’s the most casual thing in the world.
You shrug. “Busy.”
Bite.
Chew.
Swallow.
“Booked another runway next month.”
“That’s good,” he says.
“It is.”
Another bite.
A pause.
“At least someone still notices me.”
He doesn’t take the bait this time, he cuts another piece of steak, chews slowly, swallows hard. His eyes stay on you as you delicately wipe the corner of your mouth with your napkin.
You answer a text mid-meal, thumbs tapping as if you’re alone. He watches you put your phone down beside your wine glass and take another sip. He watches you laugh softly at something only you know.
“You always this rude at dinner?” He asks finally, voice low enough that only you can hear.
You meet his gaze, slow and deliberate. “Only when I’m seated with someone who’s earned it.”
His smile is dangerous now, small, sharp, promising something you’ll feel later. You go back to your scallops like the conversation’s over. But you both know it isn’t.
The idea comes moments later, just as your phone lights up again.
It’s a phone call.
You don’t hesitate.
You answer it, at dinner, in the kind of restaurant where even cutlery sounds are muted by money.
“Hi, baby,” you say into the receiver, syrupy sweet.
Kylian’s brow lifts like the first crack in a stormcloud.
“No, I’m at dinner now… Mm-hmm. Dior fitting went well—no I chose a different one, something unreleased.”
He sets down his knife and watches you.
You pause to listen, nails idly tracing the condensation on your wine glass. Then you laugh, low, flirtatious, the kind of laugh that’s meant to stick in someone’s ribs.
“Of course it hugs my ass,” you say. “It’s Dior, not charity.”
The shift in the air is instant. Heat waking in an oven. A storm remembering how to build.
Kylian leans in slightly. Jealousy ridden. “Get off the phone.” Calm. Stern. Like a man who’s used to being obeyed.
You tilt your head, pretending you didn’t hear him, twirling your fork between your fingers as you nod at something your best friend says.
“Oh, and the corset? Cunty,” you murmur into the line. “Itty-bitty waist. I’ll shock New York with that one.”
“Get off the phone,” he repeats, lower now.
You hum in fake acknowledgment, of him or of your friend, you let him guess. “Mm, yeah. The navy one. You remember—he liked it. Said it was dangerous. I’m wearing it.”
His jaw flexes. The steak knife in his hand glints under candlelight before he sets it down entirely.
A couple at the next table glance over. Someone near the bar tilts their phone just enough that you catch the reflection of a raised lens in the silverware. Paparazzi will have a field day.
Kylian’s voice drops another octave. “Ma belle. End it. Now.” It’s more a warming than sweet.
You smile into the phone. “Anyway, he’s glaring at me,” you tell your friend, ignoring him completely. “I think he’s feeling ignored.”
He moves before you can react, leaning across the table, long arm reaching, plucking your phone clean from your hand.
“Hey—”
He presses it to his ear. “We’re on a date,” he says, smooth and unhurried. “You can talk to her later.”
A pause.
“Bonne nuit.”
He ends the call and slides the phone into his jacket pocket, claiming the only device that gave you so much power.
You stare at him, half-outraged, half-thrumming with the sudden shift in charge. “That was rude.”
He leans back in his chair, casual, dangerous. “No. You were rude. This—” he gestures between the two of you, between the candles and the wine and the skyline beyond, “—is ours. And you weren’t giving it respect.”
You spear a piece of food with your fork, aggressive with a stab. “Funny. You didn’t seem to care about ‘ours’ for the last month.”
His mouth twitches, somewhere between a smirk and a warning. “Careful, chérie.”
You hum, chew, swallow and then glance at him through your lashes. “Oh, I’m being very careful. That’s why I answered the phone.”
His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t speak. Not yet. Not with the whole terrace here.
And you smile, because you’ve just reminded him, beautifully, that tonight, you’re not the only one playing a game.
You take a sip of wine, flashing the rim of your teeth in something that could be innocence but isn’t. “Where were we?”
He leans back, regarding you like a man who’s just been given an opponent worth bleeding for. “You’re in rare form tonight,” he says softly. “I missed this.”
“I’m sure you did.” You don’t even glance up from cutting into your scallop. “Hard to find a brat worth your time when you’re drowning in fans and football.”
A low chuckle from him, deep enough to warm the air between you. “You think I wanted that more than I wanted you?”
“No,” you say, slicing, chewing, swallowing with deliberate slowness. “I think you just didn’t care.”
Something in his gaze sharpens.
And then, without warning, he lunges forward, slow and precise, and hooks two fingers around the stem of your wine glass. He slides it gently from your hand, places it on the table with a soft clink.
Then he drags your chair closer. Not politely. Not with an ask. Like you’re something heavy, something earned. The scrape of the chair legs over the tile turns a few heads. He doesn’t care.
His knee brushes yours under the table. Then again. Then it stays.
You roll your eyes, but your voice is lower now. “If you wrinkle this dress, I’ll kill you.”
“If I wrinkle that dress,” he murmurs, gaze locked on your thighs, “it’s because I’m too busy ruining what’s underneath it.”
Your breath stumbles, once, but you recover fast, fork poised mid-air, chin tilting.
The look you give him is pure runway, try harder.
His lips curve, but it’s not kind. He leans in, and that goddamn hand disappears under the table. Warmth ghosts over your knee, your inner thigh. Past the slit. You don’t stop him, don’t even twitch. But your legs tighten for him to notice.
“You wore this for me,” he bites his lip.
“I wore it for the cameras.”
His fingers skim higher, a whisper of heat that makes you grip your fork tighter.
“They’ll see you,” you murmur, eyes scanning around.
“Let them,” he says. “They should know you’re mine.”
You scoff, but the sound catches in your throat. “I haven’t been yours for weeks, Ky.”
His fingers pause shy of danger. The heat of his skin burns into you, close enough to ruin you, but holding back. Like the past month condensed into a single maddening inch.
“You think I forgot you?” He asks, his mouth angling nearer to your ear. “You think I didn’t picture this—you, bratty and pouty and starving to be punished—every time I closed my eyes?”
Your jaw tenses. Your fork lowers to your plate with a soft click.
You meet his eyes deeply.
There it is.
War.
“If you pictured it so much,” you whisper, leaning in too, “maybe you should’ve fucking called.”
His smile isn’t soft. Isn’t kind. It’s darker now, threaded with something primal. Like your taunts have been nothing but arousal.
“I didn’t want to call,” he says, thumb dragging slow, devastating circles high on your thigh. “I wanted to feel.”
You swallow hard. Bite the inside of your cheek, resisting the urge to shift closer.
“Not here,” you manage.
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t deserve it.”
That one lands. You can feel the weight of it in the way his touch stills. Slowly, unhurried, he withdraws his hand, resting it back on his lap like nothing happened.
But his eyes…
His eyes promise you won’t walk out of this dinner the same.
You lift your wine, sip, and smile like your body isn’t still thrumming from every inch of where his skin touched yours.
By the time dessert menus appear, the air between you could curdle cream.
The wine has gone to your head, not enough to dull you, just enough to sharpen you into something meaner, prettier, more deadly. You haven’t given Kylian a single chance to forget the month of absence, every word since the appetisers measured and tipped in acid.
The waiter sets down the small leather-bound menu with a murmured “para terminar?” And retreats.
Kylian gestures toward it. “Dessert?”
Polite. Courteous. Like you haven’t been gutting each other with smiles all night.
You smirk, slow and languid. “You don’t have the appetite for what I’d serve.”
One brow lifts. “Try me.”
You lean forward, elbows on the table, cleavage framed in the buttery candlelight. Your voice drops to a purr. “Alright. How does disappointment taste?”
His laugh is short, sharp, more exhale than mirth. “Bitter. But familiar.”
The silence that follows is its own kind of heat. You hold his gaze, refusing to blink. This is foreplay. This is punishment. This is two storms circling, each waiting for the other to break first.
The waiter comes back to ask about sweets. You don’t look away from Kylian when you wave him off.
“I’m not sweet tonight,” you tell him. Your tone makes it sound like a threat.
You hear the soft shuffle of shoes retreating, and suddenly the terrace is yours again. Just two hearts, two egos, two lovers locked in a standoff that feels one breath away from ruin.
Kylian’s eyes are darker now, slower in their blink. His chest rises in a measured rhythm, as if he’s keeping himself caged. “You want to hurt me?” His voice barely clears the space between you. “You want to punish me for not being there?”
You lean forward until your perfume curls around him, until your breath grazes the sharp line of his jaw. “No,” you whisper, letting the word hang. “I want to make you beg.”
It’s the nail in the coffin. The final card in a losing hand. And just like that…
Dinner is over.
You stand first. Not because you’re finished but because you’re done. Every second of tension, every veiled threat of his hand on your thigh, every look that felt like a dare… it’s burned down to a single impulse, walk away.
You don’t give him your hand. Don’t wait for him to pull your chair back. You rise in your midnight satin, the slit parting with each stride, heels clicking like a countdown. Past the white linen, the flicker of gold light, the heads that turn to watch you go. You leave like a goddess stepping down from Olympus. Untouched, unsatisfied, unbothered.
At least, that’s the story you serve them.
But Kylian…
Kylian has no intention of letting the curtain fall there.
You hear his chair scrape back before you reach the stairs. By the time you hit the marble corridor, his shadow eclipses yours. Then, his hand. Hot. Sure. Wrapping around your waist with the kind of grip that says mine in a language older than speech.
You twitch, not from fear, but from the principle of not letting him think he can drag you back at will.
He leans in, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, voice so low it’s almost a growl. “You walk like that again, someone will try to take you home. And they’ll die trying.”
You scoff, tilting your head to catch the gleam of his gold watch in your periphery. “Maybe that’s what I want.”
His grip tightens, sliding lower over the perfect slope of your ass. Not a squeeze. Not even a caress. Just a claim for everyone watching.
You keep your chin lifted as two diners pass by, pretending not to eavesdrop, their eyes flicking once, twice, back at you. Somewhere in the corner, a phone screen tilts. Someone’s getting a picture.
Kylian doesn’t move his hand. Doesn’t care who sees.
The elevator doors are already open when you arrive, held by a member of staff who’s looking everywhere but at you. You step inside. He follows, hand still warm at your waist as if welded there.
You don’t push it away. You don’t lean into it. You breathe in the small, mirrored box, watching him in the reflection, his jaw tight, his eyes on you, while the tension simmers, unbroken, waiting for the next move.
Outside, the air is heavy with August heat, the kind that sticks to your skin and makes silk feel like water. The sky is a deep violet-blue, the last threads of sunset caught somewhere behind Madrid’s skyline.
And then…
White light.
Flashbulbs.
Paparazzi at the edge of the valet lane. A handful of fans hovering, phones lifted. Random passersby already filming.
You feel Kylian’s shift before you see it.
The subtle reset of his stance. Shoulders squaring. Chin angling up. That controlled, almost regal posture he uses when the world is watching.
His hand, secure at your waist, locks in tighter, an anchor in expensive gold cufflinks and cologne.
The perfect picture: the attentive man shielding his girlfriend from chaos. Sculpted jaw set, gaze focused just past the cameras as if your safety is the only thing on his mind.
You don’t need to look to know the headlines he’s already planting.
Protective. Composed. Possessive in a way that reads romantic to anyone who doesn’t know better.
You roll your eyes behind your lashes, but your smile, soft, demure, is for the cameras.
You know the game. You helped write the rules.
And besides, this…
This is your arena too.
You pivot slightly toward the flashing lights, letting the slit of your dress fall open slightly so. The fabric whispers over your thigh, catching the humid breeze. You tilt your chin, glance at the crowd, and let your mouth curve into a smirk that could sell perfume or start wars.
The photographers feast.
Click, click, click.
You know exactly what they’ll say tomorrow:
She looked like a goddess.
He looked lucky to be next to her.
She could have any man in the world…so why him?
And maybe, just maybe, he’ll see it too.
Maybe he’ll scroll through the comments over coffee, see strangers write that other men would crawl for a chance, that he should be grateful, should be groveling.
But right now…
He’s not looking at the cameras.
He’s looking at you.
And he’s gripping your side like a man counting backwards from ten.
When you reach the car, he doesn’t break character. He opens the door for you, his other hand pressing at the small of your back, firm, guiding, possessive. The perfect gentleman in every frame, even if the heat in his touch says I want to drag you back upstairs and finish this there.
You glide into the leather seat without hurry. Adjust your dress, on purpose, pulling the satin higher over the thigh he touched under the table. Cross your legs slow that you see his jaw tighten in your periphery.
He says nothing.
Not here. Not yet.
He closes the door behind you, shutting out the flashing lights, the clicking shutters, and whatever narrative you thought you’d just stolen, because in the eyes of the world, you didn’t leave together in silence.
You left under his hand.
Exactly where he wants you.
Then…
Instead of sliding in beside you like always, hand on your thigh, lips brushing your shoulder, he takes the opposite end of the back seat. Leaves the middle cushion between you.
Your jaw twitches before you can stop it.
He doesn’t even glance your way, leans back, one arm stretched along the leather, gaze fixed on the glass. Outside, the city blurs in melted streaks, neon, gold, brake-light red, and the reflections paint him in bruised light across his cheekbones.
You wait.
You don’t speak.
But God, you burn.
The silence swells, heavy to lodge between your ribs. You feel it in your teeth, your pulse, the base of your skull.
You shift, deliberately, crossing your legs so the slit in your dress opens wider, folding your arms like armour. The distance is purposeful. So is the sting. And worse, it’s working.
This is a mirror of the month he made you wait, the month of messages unsent, calls unanswered. He’s reclaiming his power, the same way he always does. Not with touch, but with the absence of it.
Your chest runs hotter. Your throat feels too tight to swallow. You bite your lip, stealing one glance at him, hoping. No, daring to find some crack in that cool facade.
But he’s wearing that face.
The unreadable one.
Flat. Cold. Still.
The one you hate.
Because you can’t predict it. Can’t bend it. Can’t tell if you’re winning or if he’s already three moves ahead. And you almost break first. Almost let something sharp slip out and cut the air between you. But you swallow it down.
You won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you miss the weight of his palm on your thigh.
So you stay silent.
So does he.
Until, finally, he breaks it.
Low. Clean. Lethal.
“What?” He laughs, like the word itself is a blade. “Not desperate for attention anymore?”
Your head turns slow, measured. A knife of a smile carving your mouth.
“Says the man who can’t keep his hands to himself in a five-star restaurant.”
His mouth twitches, half-smirk, half-threat. “You liked it though.”
You let out a scoff sharp enough to draw blood. “I tolerated it. There’s a difference.”
“You moaned,” he says. Calm. Certain. “Tiny. But I heard it.”
You roll your eyes. “Must’ve been the food.”
A beat.
His jaw ticks.
“I could make you scream,” he murmurs, finally turning his head to you, eyes dark enough to drag you under. “You know that.”
You lean in until your perfume threads between you. Your voice drops to a whisper meant to wound.
“You used to know how.”
His gaze doesn’t flicker. He sits back again, like letting you win this sentence is part of some larger, crueler game.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s sharpened steel. Your thighs press together. Your nails carve crescents into your palms. Neither of you look at the other until the car glides into the private garage under your penthouse.
Kylian gets out first. Straightens his blazer. Then opens your door, flawless in form, perfect in timing.
He offers his hand.
You don’t take it.
You step out on your own, chin high, heels striking the concrete in a rhythm that feels like a countdown.
He walks ahead, presses the elevator button without looking back. Waits with the stillness of a man who can stand in fire and not burn.
You step in after him.
He doesn’t touch you. Not your back, not your waist, not even the fingers he’s bruised before in gentler moments.
Not even when the doors slide shut and the air between you threatens to snap.
It’s cruel, it’s intoxicating but you won’t react.
When the penthouse doors finally swing open, you expect something.
A word. A glance. A breath.
But he continues the silence. He walks in. Straight ahead. Shoulders squared. Head high. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t help with your dress. Doesn’t return your phone. Doesn’t ask for your attention. You stare at his retreating figure, broad, gorgeous, maddening.
You scoff.
Because he thinks this will make you fold. He thinks this will make you chase him, crawl, beg. But he’s wrong. You’re not finished toying with him. He hasn’t earned you back.
Not even close.
In the bedroom, you hear him before you see him.
The sound of buttons. The gentle hiss of fabric sliding from skin.
When you step into the room, Kylian is standing near the bed, shirt half-undone, chest bare beneath the open collar, gold chain brushing the defined lines of his collarbone.
You pause in the doorway.
He looks up. Meets your gaze.
It hits like a punch to the gut, familiar, possessive, hungry. But you don’t react the way he wants. You scoff, again. Loud. Dismissive. Because you know what he’s doing.
You cross the room without a word, making a beeline to your vanity. The mirror greets you like an ally, casting back your reflection. Still glowing, still sharp, even after the warzone of dinner.
You sit. Slowly. Delicately. A queen after battle. One by one, you begin removing your jewellery. The earrings. The necklace. The diamond ring he once gave you, not for engagement, but because, “I want every man who looks at you to know you’re not for sale.”
You take it off first.
Behind you, Kylian moves. You see him in the mirror. Slow. Purposeful. The soft overhead lights glides over his skin as he peels his shirt away, muscles shifting like something sculpted, deliberate, divine. Shoulders broad, chest carved, abs ridged in shadow and gold. Every line of him is honed, sharpened by weeks of training, the kind of strength you can’t fake and can’t ignore. He knows it too.
He lets the shirt slide down his arms in one fluid motion, a silk curtain falling from marble, and then drops it carelessly to the floor. Like it isn’t worth more than most people’s rent, like nothing he wears could ever compete with what’s underneath.
Now he’s stripped to briefs. Black. Fitted. Dangerous.
They cling low on his hips, cutting sharp lines into the V of muscle that drags your gaze downward before you can stop yourself. The outline straining against the fabric is impossible to miss, intentional in its temptation. He shifts his stance just enough to make it clearer, cocky in the way only he can be, seduction weaponised into a challenge.
And through the mirror, he catches your eyes. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t need to. He lets you drink in the sight of him. Toned, ripped, hungry until it feels like he’s undressing you without even touching.
But you remained calm, you don’t give him the satisfaction of turning around.
“You like what you see?” He asks, voice low, smug, cocky as ever.
You take off your second earring.
“Not particularly.”
He chuckles. You don’t smile.
You move to your face, cotton pad in hand, dipped in micellar water, dabbing at the edges of your lipstick, wiping away the battleground.
That’s when you feel it.
His presence.
Large. Warm. Solid.
Kylian comes up behind you, shirtless, scent clinging to your air like smoke. His arms bracket the vanity, caging you in without touching you. He’s so close you feel the heat off his skin before you feel his mouth. The seduction, the desire, the fucking outline of his hard cock behind pressed against your spine,
You don’t have time to gasp as his lips graze your shoulder. Then your neck. Soft. Lingering. Almost reverent.
“You want an apology?” He murmurs against your skin.
You don’t answer. You keep wiping, keep your composure, your fucking dignity. The next pad comes up stained with bronzer.
He kisses lower. A soft nib of teeth against your neck.
“I’m sorry, I missed you so much,” he breathes. “I thought about you every night. I know I fucked up. I know I went cold. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to lose this.”
His mouth moves up the slope of your throat, open and wet now. You feel his breath against your ear.
“You’re everything to me,” he whispers.
You drag a final wipe across your cheek and drop it into the bin beside the vanity. Not a single flicker of response. You feel his hand reach for your face, thumb and forefinger under your chin, tilting your gaze up to meet his in the mirror.
His eyes are dark. Earnest. Wanting. He leans down, lips close to steal. Waiting.
You twist your face away with a scoff. “Seriously?”
He drops his hand.
You see the flicker of rage return. Just a spark. Just enough.
“You wanted attention,” he says, colder now. “Here it is.”
You turn slowly. “I wanted affection. Not breadcrumbs.”
His jaw tenses.
You stand, walk past him, shoulder brushing his chest as you make your way to the wardrobe. His eyes are heated on your back.
You push open the double glass doors of the walk-in and the motion sensors obey instantly, light blooming in neat golden strips along the shelving. It’s too perfect in here. Too ordered. Every shoe lined like soldiers, every silk hanging in its exact place, the faint scent of cedar and your perfume clinging to the air.
You walk in without looking back. Without slowing. The whisper of your heels over marble feels too loud in the silence.
You start flipping through your night gowns, measured, mechanical. Black. Ivory. Champagne. The familiar brush of silk on your fingers is almost grounding. Almost. But your blood still hums with leftover heat from the car, the dinner, the month before this.
You hear him follow.
The air shifts before the floorboards do, he’s carrying that weight in his chest, and it presses into the space like smoke.
“How long do you want to punish me?” He calls out, the words drawn out like they’ve been scraped raw on the way up. It’s half-groan, half-accusation. Tired. Furious.
You don’t even turn. Just cackle, sharp and low.
“You think I want to be mad?”
You pluck a silk slip from the rack, charcoal, bias-cut, impossibly soft, and hold it up like you’re studying its stitching instead of trying not to look at him. Like it’s a peace treaty you have no intention of signing.
His footsteps close in behind you.
“This is childish.”
“This,” you bite back, still not turning, “is cause and effect.”
There’s a pause long enough for the silence to tighten. Then he speaks.
“You’re not even listening to me.” His voice is flatter now, but the heat underneath hasn’t dulled.
You whip your head over your shoulder.
“You didn’t listen to me for a fucking month, Kylian.”
It lands. Sharp.
Final.
The air between you stills for a second, then his arms cross over his chest, shoulders hard.
“You think I liked ignoring you?”
“Like I said,” you say, pivoting fully now, “you didn’t care enough not to.”
His eyes flash. He steps in.
“I care too much!” The shout echoes off glass and marble. “I care so fucking much it screws with my head!”
You freeze for a heartbeat. Then you laugh, short, disbelieving, like it’s the cruelest joke you’ve ever heard.
“Well, congratulations,” you say, every syllable dipped in ice. “Welcome to the club.”
It hangs.
The room feels smaller. The air heavier. You’re both breathing like you’ve sprinted the length of a pitch, each inhalation loud in the hush. Your eyes are locked, pupils blown wide, his are sharp enough to cut. You hate, hate that he looks this good when he’s angry. That his hands, curling slowly into fists at his sides now, still make you want to step into him instead of away.
Your stomach twists.
Your pulse is in your throat.
“Turn around,” you mutter, fingers finding the zipper at your spine.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t even pretend to.
“Turn. Around.” Your voice is sharper this time, snapper, but your hand stays frozen on the zipper.
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says. No hesitation. No air between the words. His voice is low, gritted, jaw locked so tight you can see the muscle jump. “You’re mine.”
You still. Completely.
When you speak again, it’s quieter than before, but so much colder the temperature in the room seems to drop.
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
And there it is.
The soundless snap of something invisible between you, too taut for too long, breaking.
That’s the needle drop.
You barely register the sound of his feet crossing the marble, only the shift in the air, the vibration in the floorboards. And then, his hand closes around your wrist. Not tentative. Not asking. Hard. Firm. Commanding.
Your head jerks up, startled. “Kylian—”
“You want to feel it?” He grits, voice low but edged in something feral, the kind of tone that curls around your spine.
Before you can even part your lips, before the retort can form, he yanks you forward.
Almost cruel. Almost reckless.
The movement steals your balance, heel skidding across the polished floor, shoes kicking off. Your breath catches, but he’s already there. His hand clamps your wrist tighter, the other snapping to your hip, steadying, steering, dragging you out of the wardrobe and into the bedroom with that relentless, anchored strength that says, we’re done talking.
You stumble, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t let you fall. He doesn’t let you go.
The lights in the bedroom are low, honey-gold against the shadows, the whole room breathing like it’s waiting for this. Your reflection flickers past in the mirrored wall, dress clinging, jaw locked, his hand a brand searing through silk and skin.
“You want to act like you’re not mine?” His voice rumbles from his chest, guttural, deep.
He spins you so fast the hem of your dress flares, settling crooked on your hips, one strap sliding down your shoulder like surrender. His eyes pin yours, sharp enough to slice through the silence.
“Like I haven’t spent the last month losing my fucking mind because I couldn’t have you?”
The words catch you off-guard, a crack in his control that makes your retort sharper, deadlier, already poised on your tongue. But then—
His hand is at your jaw. Large, hot, unyielding. Not a caress. Not a threat. A hold. Firm to ground you, gentle to make you ache. He tilts your chin up until you have no choice but to meet him head-on, until your mouth parts, just barely, from the weight of his conviction.
“Then fine,” he whispers, his breath ghosting your lips, his eyes dark and unflinching. “Let me remind you.”
The bed is there before you even process it, an unspoken destination you both knew you’d end up at. He sits, thighs spread wide, chest rising with sharp, deliberate breaths, every shadow carving his muscles into gold. He doesn’t pull you down, he places you, folded over his lap in one fluid motion like you never had a choice.
A goddess bent. Not broken.
Your cheek presses to the mattress, your palms claw at his thigh, knuckles paling against hard muscle. The dress pools in messy folds around your thighs, baring your legs, baring your defiance, leaving your pride burning like fire in your throat.
He pauses, long enough for you to feel the weight of his stare, the deliberate stillness of his hands resting on you. Not tentative. Calculating. Holding the moment like a weapon.
You don’t move. You don’t flinch.
And then—
Smack.
The sound ricochets through the room. Sharp. Final. Possessive.