Camila Rodrigo;
I can't believe I let the devil kiss me like I wasn't just pretending to be the perfect girlfriend. I let him grab my ass. I let him suck on my nipples. How utterly shameless can I be?
But the worst part?
I liked it.
Every damn second of it.
Some broken, damaged part of me craved more.
I climbed out of the pool, disgusted with myself. And the thing is—he was right. I didn't resist him. Not even once. I let that twisted pleasure take over.
God, I'm so stupid. So stupid!
He dried himself off with the towel I brought earlier. Once he was done, I followed suit and threw on the clothes he had hidden under the chair. Just as I was done getting dressed, my phone buzzed—a message from Aaron saying he was heading to the poolside to find me.
Panic surged through me. And the moment I heard someone's voice on a call getting closer, I dove straight back into the pool.
I was still in the water when Alessandro started asking Aaron questions about me. And I was livid. Shouldn't he know that staying away from his son is exactly what I need right now?
"Tell me, son," he began, voice smooth like oil, "what do you love about her?"
There was a brief silence between them.
"Come on," the devil coaxed, "just a little father-son talk. She's probably inside, maybe resting. Let's talk—just us."
"Alright, Dad," Aaron finally replied. "Well, she's smart, kind, confident… sweet. She's nothing like the others I've been with. She's… different."
And damn it, he sounded so sincere. If I didn't know it was all a ruse, I would've believed him.
"That's lovely to hear, son," Alessandro said. "If I recall correctly, she's a therapist, right?"
"Yeah, Dad. Why?" Aaron asked, a hint of caution in his tone.
"On the contrary," the devil said with a wicked grin in his voice, "everything about that is perfect. You see, after my release, the court ordered me to continue therapy—twice a week. And I thought to myself… since your girlfriend is a therapist, why not take advantage of the opportunity?"
Another heavy silence followed. The kind that weighs on your chest.
"I don't know, Dad. I'll try to talk to her about it—but it's her decision, not mine," Aaron replied, his voice uncertain but respectful.
"Then it's settled. You speak to her on my behalf. Thank you, son," the devil said with that familiar, unsettling calm.
"Alright. If that's all, I really need to go look for her," Aaron added, clearly eager to leave.
"The sooner you find her, the better it is for everyone," his father replied coolly.
After a while, I was sure Aaron had gone. Only then did I rise from the water, grabbing the towel with quick, frustrated movements. As I patted myself dry, I could feel his eyes on me—heavy and unbothered.
"How dare you go around asking questions like that?" I snapped, my voice sharp and trembling with fury. "You knew I was in that pool, barely breathing."
He looked at me like I was the one losing my mind.
"I never told you to jump in. That was your conscience. So… deal with it," he said flatly, like it was nothing.
I stared at him, stunned, words caught in my throat. Before I could stop myself—
WHACK!
My palm connected with his face in a sharp slap. I didn't wait for a reaction. I snatched my straw hat and stormed off without a second glance.
Outside, I lingered a moment, letting the breeze dry the last traces of water from my skin before heading back to my room.
As I pushed the door open, Aaron jolted upright from the bed. He looked exhausted, his eyes clouded with worry.
"Hey…" he breathed, pulling me into a tight embrace. "Where have you been all day? I searched everywhere—nothing. Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
His voice was soaked in concern, and I felt a pang of guilt twist in my chest.
"I'm sorry, Aaron," I said softly. "I was in the garden… playing with flowers, matching colors. Then I went to the pool, and I guess I lost track of time."
A half-lie. A necessary one.
The truth is, he's allergic to dandelions, and the garden is bursting with them. I don't even know why his family allows those flowers to grow around him. It's like they don't care—or worse, they forget the things that could hurt him.
"You had your phone with you, Camila. I called—multiple times. You didn't answer," Aaron said, his voice strained with worry. "I was freaking out."
"I'm sorry, Aaron," I said gently. "I promise I won't ignore my phone again. I'll make sure to pick up next time so you won't have to worry. Okay?"
He nodded, though the tension in his face hadn't fully eased.
I walked past him to change into dry clothes. When I came back into the bedroom, he was still sitting there, wearing that same troubled expression.
Without a word, he pulled me into another hug, exhaling heavily against my hair and pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head. I gently stepped back, placing my hands on his chest to keep some space between us.
"Whoa, whoa, easy there, cougar. What's going on with you?" I asked, trying to keep the mood light, but the weird energy was undeniable.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice low. "I'm just really relieved to see you safe. That's all."
But I wasn't buying it. Not completely.
"Come sit," he said, patting the bed beside him. "We need to talk."
I hesitated for a moment, then sat down, watching him carefully.
"I need your help again," he began, eyes focused on the floor. "Well… it's not really for me. It's for my dad."
I already knew where this was going, but I pretended not to.
"One might think I'm Santa Claus at this point—handing out favors like candy," I teased, trying to mask my rising irritation.
He gave a half-hearted smile, then looked at me seriously.
"I'm really sorry, Camila."
"Okay, pray tell," I said, folding my arms. "What exactly do you need me to do?"
"The court ordered Dad to get therapy—to be evaluated twice a week for a period of time. That's it."
"Right. So where do I come in?" I asked sharply. "He has the money and the connections to hire the best therapists in the country—hell, in the world. And don't tell me you couldn't say no to him, Aaron."
Aaron lowered his gaze, silent.
"You're one of the best," he finally said. "And… you brought it up in his office. So now he wants to test the waters. See if what you said was legit."
Of course he does.
He had to be either a damn good puppet—or a complete fool.
"No! I'm done with the pretending, Aaron. I'm done with you blindly obeying every one of his commands," I snapped, anger rising in my throat. "Grow some balls—or I will."
"Just this one last time, Camila. I swear, it's the last," he pleaded, his voice low and desperate.
I hesitated. As much as I hated this situation, it was an opportunity—especially since continuing the assessment sessions at the prison had hit a dead end.
"Fine," I sighed, crossing my arms. "But no more favors. Zip. Nada. Done."
"Thank you, Camila," he said softly, leaning in to kiss my forehead.
I stepped back, uneasy. There was something off about him today, and I didn't like it.
"That's not appropriate, Aaron. You're acting… weird," I told him, a knot forming in my chest.
And then the question crept into my mind:
What if he isn't gay?
What if this has all been pretend?
He saw the shift in my face and immediately tried to fix it.
"Camila, I know it's confusing. I'm sorry. You're probably thinking I'm straight and pretending to be gay—but I promise you, I'm not."
His words didn't reassure me. If anything, they muddied things more.
He must've seen it too, because he quickly added, "Let me tell you how I figured it out—who I really am."
He sat down, shoulders sinking as he exhaled.
"Back in high school, girls were constantly throwing themselves at me. At first, I thought it was flattering. But it got suffocating. So I hid out in the library to get away from it all… and that's where I met Michael."
His lips curved into a small smile, nostalgia softening his face.
"He became my best friend—my safe space. We were inseparable. But because of who my father was, I had to keep up appearances: dating girls, going to parties, getting drunk and high. The next day, I'd always wake up with a massive hangover, and Mikey would be there. Always."
He paused.
"On our last day of high school, Mikey kissed me. Told me he'd fallen in love with me. I went to his place after school and… we slept together. After graduation, I left for college abroad. We stayed in touch—texted, called. It wasn't easy, but we made it work."
He looked me dead in the eye.
"Mikey's bisexual. I'm not."
The way he said it left no room for doubt.
"I know you might still have questions, Camila. But I promise—"
Just then, I saw a shadow pass by the door. Someone was there.
So I did the unthinkable.
I placed a finger against Aaron's lips. He raised a brow in confusion.
"Baby," I said sweetly, loud enough to be heard, "don't apologize over something so small. I love you. You love me. That's all that matters."
And before he could say a word, I leaned in and kissed him.
It started light. But fake couples don't do light kisses. So I deepened it—just enough to sell the illusion.
The door creaked open. Someone peeked in, took one look, and left.
Monica.
Aaron groaned. "Mom, what the hell?! Ever heard of knocking?!" he shouted, faking outrage.
"That was a close call," he whispered once the door shut again.
I got up and locked it, hard.
"You need to talk to her," I said firmly. "Make it clear how pissed you are. And wasn't she banned from the mansion?"
He ran a hand through his hair, just as confused. "I know, right? I'll handle it. Meanwhile, you can go find my dad. Maybe start the therapy sessions while I deal with Mom."
"Sure," I agreed with a nod.
Aaron slipped out, leaving me alone in the room.
I headed to the giant jacuzzi and took my time soaking in the warm water. The bubbles I'd added filled the tub with soft foam. Female toiletries sat waiting on the shelf—Aaron must have prepared them ahead of time.
I played around for a while, letting the heat relax my muscles before I washed up, dried my body and hair, and prepared for the next round of chaos this family was sure to bring.
---
I slipped into a sweatshirt and joggers, grabbed my phone and jotter, and made my way toward the devil's lair.
The two men stationed at the door gave me hard, assessing stares meant to intimidate—but I was built for this. I met their eyes head-on, full of fire, then pointed at the door with silent authority.
One of them scoffed before finally opening it. I smiled sweetly and mouthed, "You're welcome."
I stepped into the study cautiously. He was behind his desk, typing away on his computer. When he finally looked up, a wave of memories hit me like a storm—his mouth on mine, his hands on my body, the heat of the pool…
Yeah, he was older, experienced, and annoyingly handsome.
Pull yourself together, Camila. No time for hormonal lapses.
"Are you going to stand there and gawk, or are you actually going to sit and be useful?" he asked calmly, not bothering to look up again.
I swallowed whatever snarky comeback I had ready and walked to the empty chair in front of his desk, silently waiting for him to finish whatever he was doing so we could get this session over with.
After a few silent, frustrating minutes, he stood and gestured toward the plush sofa tucked into the corner of the room. I followed and settled into one of the seats, opening my jotter and slipping on my glasses.
"Today, I want us to explore a new angle," I began professionally. "Cognitive Behavioral Therapy—CBT. It's a structured, goal-oriented approach. You'll be learning how to identify, challenge, and change thought patterns and behaviors—especially post-incarceration."
He wasn't listening.
Not really.
He was looking at me—like I was a meal he was debating devouring.
"Mr. Alessandro, I need you to focus," I said firmly. "This session is only forty-five minutes long. Every second matters."
He leaned back, that infuriating smirk spreading across his face.
"Sorry, Doctor. I was just... processing your CBT concept," he said smoothly. "Caught my attention, checked into my pool, let me kiss you—and then bam, changed into a feisty cheerleader with a killer slap."
My jaw nearly hit the floor.
Did he really just twist CBT into that mess?!
"Or…" he added, eyes glinting with mischief, "…do you need a refresher, Doctor? I promise to grab a little tighter this time."
The audacity of this man.
This son of a—
I clenched my jotter tightly, doing everything in my power not to chuck it at his head.