Pervert, make her feel like woman again

I wake up and the room feels too large, too quiet. I catch my reflection in the vanity mirror and for the first time in my life, I feel... old. It’s a ridiculous thought for a woman in her mid-twenties, but after Damian's email, the "Smooth Operator" feels like a relic of a past life. My skin looks dull, my eyes are tired, and the weight of being "replaced" by someone fresher is a physical ache in my chest.

I don't feel like the high-powered strategist today. I feel discarded.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands. Why do I care what a man like John thinks? He has a reputation—a "pervert" with a Harvard degree and a pilot’s ego. He’s exactly the kind of man I should keep at arm's length. But as I look at the Argentina jersey hanging on my chair, I realize I don't want to be respected today. I want to be seen. I need someone to look at me and remind me that I’m still a woman who can stop a man's heart.

I pull on the jersey—it’s fitted, the fabric clinging to the curves I usually hide under power suits—and pair it with jeans that sculpt my legs. I leave my hair down, the dark espresso waves falling over my shoulders. It’s a tactical choice, but my heart is racing for all the wrong reasons.

The doorbell rings. I check my reflection one last time. You are Helena Lima, I tell myself. You aren't a victim; you're the prize.

I open the door and find John leaning against his SUV, flanked by those emotionless Silent Sentinels. He looks up, and for a split second, his clinical mask cracks. His eyes widen, tracing the line of the jersey, the curve of my hip, the way the sunlight hits my face. It’s a predatory, "perverted" look—lecherous, even—but inside, I feel a warmth I haven't felt in days.

He noticed. God, he really noticed.

My chest swells with a sudden, addictive glow of confidence. I feel visible again. Beautiful. Alive. But the second I realize how much his gaze is affecting me, the armor slams back into place. I can't let him know he's winning.

“Well?” I say, my voice dripping with bored irritation. “Are you going to keep staring like a creep, or are we actually going to this game?”

I tilt my chin, giving him my best "don't get cocky" glare. Inside, I’m bubbling with a frantic, nervous excitement, but I make sure my expression stays cool and unimpressed.

John clears his throat, a tiny, helpless sound of a man caught off guard. He doesn't go for a clever retort or a backhanded compliment. He just stares.

“You look incredibly gorgeous and sexy, Helena,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, clinical growl. “That jersey doesn't even stand a chance against you.”

The air leaves my lungs in a sudden, sharp rush. My heart does a frantic double-tap against my ribs. He didn't play the game. He didn't give me an opening to argue. He just... stated it. Like a fact. Like an objective he’s already decided to take.

I feel my face go nuclear, the heat spreading from my neck to my hairline. The "Smooth Operator" is screaming at me to say something clever, to shut him down, but for a second, I’m just a woman whose knees have gone dangerously soft.

“You... you’re such a pervert,” I snap, my voice an octave higher than I wanted. I turn on my heel, retreating toward the car before he can see the helpless smile threatening to break my mask. “Keep your lecherous comments to yourself! We’re going to a football match, not a photo shoot”

I make sure to put a little extra swing in my step, feeling the weight of his stare on my back. He might be a pervert, and he might be the man who broke my world, but today, he’s going to be the one who makes me feel like a woman again—even if I have to insult him every step of the way to keep my pride intact.