Chapter 114 What He Wants, He Gets
"Miss Adkins, are you seriously going to make tomato pasta?" Henry inquired, raising an eyebrow.
"What choice do I have? He wants it. Am I supposed to wait for him to settle scores with me?" Layla snapped back, edgy.
Henry frowned, "Mr. Holland isn't used to eat such... basic food." He was implying it was beneath their usual standard.
Accustomed to the delicacies prepared by five-star chefs, could the bodyguard stomach such a common dish? He might just get angrier.
From what she'd seen, Samuel seemed to be the most normal of the lot in that household.
He must know by now that she was missing, using his influence to find her. Her goal was to avoid provoking Jovan as much as possible until he found her, although that was easier said than done.
At dinner, Layla had to constantly fight the urge to slap him across the face.
Cooking in a cocktail dress was a first for Layla; she felt constrained and worried about staining it. Normally, it only took fifteen minutes to whip up dinner, but this time it took half an hour.
By the time Layla served the meal, Jovan had already drained an entire bottle of red wine. His cheeks flushed with irritation, he glared at her. "Did you deliberately drag this out to starve me?"
"Why didn't you start with the steak?"
"It's cold. How am I supposed to eat that?" Did she actually expect him to eat food that had gone cold? Was she out of her mind?
"Picky." Layla pursed her lips, placing the food in front of him with a bit more force than necessary.
"What's with that attitude?" Jovan's expression soured like an oncoming storm. Women were usually submissive and eager to please around him, and here she was, practically slamming down his bowl. She must have a death wish!
"I'm not your servant."
"Of course not, you're less than a servant, you're just a worthless prisoner."
Prisoner?
Layla desperately wanted to slam the food onto his face–the thought alone was satisfying.
But she restrained herself, knowing better than to fight a losing battle.
With a forced patience and a softened tone, she urged, "Eat up before it gets worse."
Jovan scornfully eyed the tomato pasta. "Is this the kind of garbage you used to win over that bastard's heart?"
Why so much talk over a simple meal? Tomato pasta was what he had asked for, wasn't it? Layla complained to herself but kept quiet, continuing to eat in silence.
The meal might have been slow in the making, but it didn't compromise the taste, maintaining her usual high standard–too good for him, she thought.
Noticing Jovan frowning at the tomato pasta with distaste, Henry, the male bodyguard, offered, "Mr. Holland, let me take that away and I'll ask the chef to prepare something else."
"Who asked you to butt in?" Jovan shot Henry a chilling glance, causing him to step back a few paces.
Jovan picked up the fork and with a skeptical attitude, scooped up a mouthful.
His brow furrowed more tightly..
To his surprise, the flavor was quite good, unlike the five-star cuisines he was used to, it had a unique taste.
Indescribable.
He found himself taking another bite, then another.
Henry watched in amazement. Jovan was known for his light appetite–this was him eating a lot.
Layla kept her head down, focused on her meal, until she suddenly looked up to find Jovan standing rigidly in front of her, startling her.
"What are you doing?" Layla exclaimed as she was yanked to her feet.
Jovan had grabbed her right on her injured wrist, his rough fingertips grazing the raw skin painfully.
"Jovan, let go... it hurts..." Layla cried out.
"You're quite a gem," Jovan said, his eyes ablaze, gripping her hand tightly.
She'd passed his test of wealth.
At first glance, she might seem rather plain, but all it took was a touch of makeup to reveal a stunning, natural beauty—and she could cook to boot. Even her fiery temper, he saw it as a kind of bravery, something unique.
Complex women, interesting women.
Seemed the girl that bastard fancied wasn't completely worthless.
The more he watched her, the more he wanted to tear her apart.
"Let go of me." Layla shook off his grasp, but in the next instant, Jovan's hands slammed down, bracketing her on either side.
He leaned in close.
She felt a sudden choke.
Only to see Jovan's pair of mesmerizing eyes, somewhat resembling Samuel's, tainted with a deep, disdainful smile—undeniably a face marked with handsomeness and recklessness. But Layla felt only anger and fear.
Her breaths grew erratic, her throat dry, the words lodged there, unspoken.
Her cheeks flushed a deeper hue, much to Jovan's delight as he savored the rosiness on her face.
"Nervous? Seems like you do have some feelings for me after all," Jovan teased as he lifted her chin.
Goosebumps broke out on her skin; she wanted to spit in his face.
Such vanity! If she felt anything for him, it was deep-seated loathing.
Eyes wide, she retorted, "I really don't know where you get your confidence."
"The name Jovan is confidence enough," he said, closing the gap between them, chest pressing against hers.
Layla tried to push him away, but as soon as she let go, Jovan caught her wrists, pulling them even closer. He could feel her softness pressing against him, a fatal attraction for any virile man.
Jovan could feel desire coursing through him, heightened as never before for a woman...
"What are you doing? Don't touch me." Layla squirmed helplessly, her hands immobile.
Jovan's lips descended towards hers—soft, inviting.
His fingers tightened their grip.
"You don't get to say no!"
The women Jovan wanted, he got—no exceptions.
Her resistance only fueled his desire.
"Jovan!"
Just as their lips were about to meet, Layla screamed, her voice twisted with fear.
"Jovan." A gentle female voice came from behind them.
At that, Jovan stopped his advance.
Layla looked terrified, her complexion ashen, gasping for air.
Jovan's lips curled into a smirk as he slowly stood up, turning to face Emily who had just arrived. She stood there impeccably dressed, with elegance and concern etched across her face.
She was too early, spoiling his plans.
Emily's gaze then drifted to Layla. The girl was young, maybe twenty, an epitome of innocence—not his usual type.
His latest conquest, perhaps?
Years as Jovan's companion had made Emily aware of his brief escapades with other women. She was the constant. However, having another woman introduced to her by Jovan was a first, setting off alarms in her heart.
Was it because the new girl was younger?
Despite her enduring love for another man, Jovan was her first in a true sense, and her entire existence now hinged upon him. She didn't mind his casual flings, but the thought of him being seriously involved felt like a threat.
Unconsciously, Emily's grip on her purse tightened as she straightened her spine.
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