"I don't know," the woman said, her tone sharp as glass.
"I just know you're an opportunistic, rotten son of a bitch who hides behind his good name so he can prey on women left and right."
Her words were harsh, but Ross barely blinked.
Instead, he smiled—slowly, wickedly—as if she'd just paid him a compliment.
He leaned back slightly where he stood, confidence oozing from every movement.
"Is that so?" he asked, his voice low, amused, as though he found her outrage endearing.
His eyes never left her face, savoring every flicker of emotion across her features.
Anger. Disgust. But under it all? That glint of fascination she couldn't quite suppress.
He'd seen it before.
Ross Oakley had encountered all types of women—those who worshipped him, those who used him, those who wanted to destroy him—and this one?
She was the rare kind who thought she could resist him.
She wanted to believe she was above it all. That she wouldn't fall like the others.
And that, more than anything, intrigued him.
"It is," she snapped. "You're nothing but a piece of shit. Nothing more."
"I beg to differ," Ross said, his grin widening as he swirled the drink in his hand.
"A lot of people happen to love this piece of shit."
"Gold diggers and bitches," she spat. "Low-class women with no dignity. Women who'd sell their souls for a few minutes of attention from someone like you."
He gave a soft laugh, slow and deliberate, as if truly enjoying the venom in her voice.
"Really? Is that what you think of them—or what you're afraid you'll become?"
Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but Ross didn't stop. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her.
"Are you talking about yourself, Jane?" he said, his words like silk wrapping around a blade.
"Because if it weren't for your dear senator husband, let's be honest—you wouldn't be sipping cocktails in designer heels. You'd be scrambling to stay relevant, probably doing low-budget porn just to keep the lights on. Or worse."
That did it.
Pak!
The slap came fast and fierce, her hand crashing against his cheek with the full force of her fury.
The sound cut through the air like a whip crack. Heads turned, but Ross didn't flinch.
He took it—let it land, let it sting—and then slowly turned his head back to look at her.
His grin never left.
"Ah," he said softly, almost like a lover murmuring sweet nothings. "There it is. That fire."
His cheek reddened, but he wore the slap like a badge of honor.
Her rage, her resistance, her refusal to bow—he loved it all.
Because beneath that righteous fury, he saw something else: heat.
A flicker of something darker. Curiosity. Intrigue.
The unspoken question—What happens if I give in to him?
And Ross?
He already had the answer.
In his mind, he saw her coming apart beneath him, every shred of defiance stripped away until all that was left was raw, breathless surrender.
He'd seen that journey before—from loathing to longing, from insult to obsession. He lived for it.
She was proud now. Sharp-tongued. Dressed in armor made of wit and disdain.
But he would break through.
Not with force.
With precision.
With patience.
With seduction as ruthless as war.
And when she finally called his name—not in anger, but in pleasure, in desperation—he'd remind her of this moment.
The slap. The insults. The line she thought she would never cross.
He would make her cross it.
And she would never go back.
***
The night ended in a storm of whispers, hushed voices trailing through the corridors of power and scandal.
People talked—of course they did.
When someone as infamous as Ross Oakley was involved, rumors traveled at the speed of light.
Cameras hadn't caught the moment, but witnesses had. Dozens of them.
By morning, the story had already mutated into half a dozen versions, all centering around one shocking truth: Jane, the poised and reserved wife of a good senator, had slapped Ross Oakley across the face.
Word reached Jane's husband faster than she expected.
By the time she returned home, a security team was already waiting.
He didn't say much then—just gave her a long look, his lips pressed into a tight line, before ordering the bodyguards to stay close to her at all times.
Not a single protest from her was entertained.
He wasn't worried about gossip. That came with the job.
What unsettled him was the man at the center of it all.
Later that night, as they sat in the quiet of their drawing room, the calm finally broke.
"I heard you slapped Ross Oakley last night," her husband said, his voice sharper than she had heard in months. "Why would you do that, Jane?"
His tone was edged with concern, but also something deeper—fear, maybe. Or frustration.
Jane met his gaze without flinching.
"Because someone needed to. The man is a predator. He walks around like the world owes him its women. He should be in jail, not walking red carpets and attending charity galas."
Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with anger.
She clenched her fists in her lap, her knuckles white.
She had never felt such seething hatred for anyone before—not even toward those who had wronged her in the past.
But Ross Oakley? He was in a league of his own.
Her husband rubbed his temples, sighing heavily. "I know. I feel the same. But Ross isn't like others. He's dangerous. He's protected by people we can't even name. The kind of power behind him...it's not something you can slap away in public and walk away from unscathed."
"You think I don't know that?" Jane said quietly. "But I'm tired. Tired of watching men like him get away with everything just because people are afraid."
"I didn't become a senator without learning how the world works," he said, his tone softening. "And I'm telling you now—don't do it again. You may have made a point, but you've also made yourself a target."