Chapter 4 Santino's POV

~SANTINO'S POV~

She was a wildfire. Loud. Messy. Untamed. Not the quiet, naïve girl I had been promised. Not the small, soft thing her father thought he could hand to me with a bow.

Everyone in the room feared me. They lowered their voices when I walked in. They chose their words carefully,They treated me like a god to worship.

That was how it worked in my world. Respect was currency. Fear was safety.

Not Hailey Carter.

She insulted my chandelier. She mocked the soup. She chewed her steak like she was ready for a fight. She spoke first, loudest. She did not bow.

She did not flinch. For some strange reason, that did not displease me. It felt rather refreshing.

I lifted my wine glass, because that's what men like me did. We lift glasses and we measure people in the way they hold their forks.

"You're very unrefined," I said.

She gave me a tight-lipped smile. "Thank you." Short. Dry. Like I wasn't worth talking to.

The nerve of her. That tongue. Those bright eyes that dared me to step closer. I should have been angry. I should have told her the cost of her careless words.

But instead, there was this pull inside my chest.

Like a rope being thrown down into a pit and someone daring me to climb. It was a challenge I would love to see to the end.

Then Marcus walked in.

My assistant. Loud when he wanted to be. He barged through the door like he owned the hinges.

"Boss, quick update- oh, you're in the middle of dinner." He looked at Hailey the way idle men look at pretty things.

I watched Marcus grin, and something cold filled me. Not the slow, steady cold I carried for business. A sharp, hot prick of anger.

He had no right to grin like that. Not at my table. Not at her.

"Hi, future Mrs. Blackwood. How's prison?" He smirked as if he said a joke.

She laughed. Not the polite laugh. A real laugh that shook the room. Her eyes curved and she looked alive for a second. That laugh cut through the silence like a small bell.

I felt something ugly then. For a bitter second I wanted to snap his neck. But that would be too quick. Too easy. No. I pictured a slower thing.

A deeper lesson. I imagined taking him to the edge where he would not even know how he died.

Hailey was still smiling. The smile did a trick. It softened her face. For a moment she looked less like an enemy and more like something else. Not harmless.

"Out." I glared at Marcus.

Marcus winked like a child. "You'll survive. Just don't drink the orange soup."

He then bowed like a clown, dramatic and loud, then left with a whistle. I watched him go. I watched the door close. The sound felt clean.

A memory flashed in my head then. Old reports. Files. A voice in my ear months ago telling me of her father's secret dealings, and here they were with a marriage deal.

The warm, small feeling that had crept into my chest vanished like smoke.

I set my glass down carefully. The clink was soft. My voice was flat when I said, "You like him."

She looked at me like the question was obvious. "Of course. He's funny. You should try it sometime." Her answer was careless. Her tone was careless.

It should have ticked me off. Instead it landed like a pebble in still water and made small rings. She thought I needed to be lighter.

That assumption, the small mistake, made me want to teach her a lesson.

"Careful, Hailey. My patience has limits."

She didn't flinch. Her smile faded a little, but she held her chin high like a queen who'd lost her crown and kept her head anyway.

"So does mine," she said.

The air between us changed. Sparks, Dangerous and sharp. I could feel the heat around the words.

She was challenging me. I was going to have fun breaking this little spoiled princess.

The thought of breaking her tasted sweet and cold at once. Not in a childish way. In the way I handled men who thought they were bigger than they were.

In the way I dealt with broken machines: take them apart, see the parts, learn how they work, put them back together only if they were useful.

But Hailey was not a machine. She exploded, pushed back, ate steak with both hands. She called soup orange water. She called out my chandelier.

And she smiled when my men joked about our impending union.

My assistant's interruption had been useful. It had let me see her laughter. It had shown me how she looked when she let down her walls for a second.

She reached for her glass and sipped like nothing happened How Brave.

I watched her fingers. Long and quick. Her knuckles white on the cutlery. I watched the way she chewed, the small movements in her jaw. I observed the little pauses when she breathed.

Men like me are not used to being watched back. We look. We own. But she did not look like she was searching for approval. She looked like a woman who wanted to see what I would do.

"I will enjoy this," I said low, and the words were not kind.

She answered with her eyes. Her jaw tightened. That would be the game now. Push. Pull. See which one of us would bleed first.

If she was wildfire, then I would be the rain.Hard. Controlling. Necessary. And I would see if she would burn, or if she would change the air herself.

Either way, I promised myself one thing: She would not make me look weak in front of my table.