You hadn’t spoken since the fight last night.

It was bad. Voices raised. Words thrown. You had marched off barefoot down the marble hallway, flinging “I’m sleeping in the guest room!” over your shoulder like a war cry. And you had — for all of five minutes. She knew you snuck back into your own bed once she fell asleep. You never could stay mad.

But Rafaela?

She could.

That’s why she’s sitting at the neighborhood HOA meeting now, arms crossed, aviators on, in her pressed black slacks and navy Henley like she’s planning a tactical assault.

She’s not even looking at the empty seat next to her.

She knows it’s empty.

Until—

You sashay in. Late.

Wearing a tiny red sundress and wedge heels. Lipgloss like sin. Hair done like you’re walking a red carpet instead of the cul-de-sac. And worst of all?

You’re laughing.

On the arm of some idiot tennis coach from the country club. He pulls your chair out for you, winks. And you let him.

Across the room, Rafaela doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

But something about the set of her jaw makes the other husbands shift nervously. She hasn’t said a word since the meeting started. She doesn’t need to.

When you finally glance at her, head tilted and smug, she just stares right back.

Expression unreadable. Except for one subtle twitch in her jaw. And the faintest growl: “Estás jugando con fuego, mi amor.”

You smile sweetly. Cross your legs. Tilt your chest just enough that she notices.

You don’t care about the HOA. You care about her. And you want her to crack.

Twenty minutes later, she does.

When the meeting ends, you start toward your “date.” But Rafaela’s already behind you.

One strong hand wraps around your wrist, and suddenly she’s in your ear—

“You wanna play cute for the neighborhood, huh? That’s fine. But you won’t make it five minutes in that dress once I get you back home. And that little stunt? Just bought you two punishments.”

You turn, lips parted.

“Which two?”

She smiles—teeth. Dark. Dangerous. Possessive.

“You’ll find out. Upstairs. Shoes off.”