Page 15 of Sexting the Bratva Boss (Text to Touch)

Eva

"Scene fifteen, take three, action!"

The sharp crack of the slate echoed through the set, and everything went dead quiet. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, I wasn't Eva Stone anymore. I was Lena.

My old brother had been murdered right in front of me, but I couldn't identify the killer because he was threatening my parents' lives. So I had to lie—use every ounce of acting ability I had to deceive the sharp detective sitting across from me.

"Miss Lena," Liam, the actor playing the police officer, said with crushing authority, "we have reason to believe you saw the killer's face. Tell us—who was it?"

I looked up, instinctively wrapping my arms around myself.

"I—I don't know." My voice came out soft and shaky.

"Everything happened so fast. I just heard the gunshot, and then I saw my brother, he—" The words stuck in my throat like they physically hurt to say.

I bit down hard on my lower lip, fighting back tears, but the overwhelming grief made my whole body start trembling uncontrollably .

The detective clearly didn't buy my story. He pressed harder. "The killer saw you but didn't kill you. Did you make some kind of deal with him?"

"He was my big brother!" My voice suddenly shot up—not a scream, but the kind of desperate, helpless cry a cornered animal makes. "Instead of going after the real killer, why do you keep harassing the victim?"

After getting those words out, I felt completely drained. The tears came whether I wanted them to or not.

"Cut!"

The director's voice rang out. He stood up from behind the monitor, his face showing both surprise and undisguised admiration. The entire set was dead silent—everyone still caught up in the grief and desperation I'd just created. A few seconds later, thunderous applause erupted.

"Tired?" Ruslan appeared beside me.

He'd dropped me off this morning, then finished his work early to come watch filming. The crew had gotten used to this mysterious investor's presence.

"A little," I nodded. "That scene was emotionally draining."

"You did great." His tone carried genuine approval.

My scenes wrapped early, so I changed clothes and walked out with Ruslan.

At his black Bentley, he opened the passenger door for me, placing his hand protectively over the door frame so I wouldn't hit my head.

Just as I was bending down to get in the car, a sudden flash of reflected light hit my eyes.

I froze mid-motion.

"What's wrong?" Ruslan's voice came from above me.

"Nothing," I shook my head. "I probably strained my eyes with all that crying. Seeing spots."

I got in and buckled my seatbelt. Ruslan closed the door and walked around to the driver's seat. We were heading to my apartment to pack up my stuff—we were moving in together .

"If you're tired, I can just send people to handle the move," he offered.

"There are some things I need to pack myself." I urged him, "Let's go."

He studied my expression for a moment, making sure I wasn't just being stubborn, then started the car.

Forty minutes later, we turned onto a street I knew like the back of my hand. When this luxury car that completely clashed with the neighborhood pulled up in front of my run-down apartment building, I could feel passersby staring.

I felt embarrassed, but Ruslan's face showed nothing. He just unbuckled his seatbelt and said calmly, "Let's go."

I led him up the narrow stairwell and unlocked my beat-up front door.

"This is it." I stepped aside to let him in.

The tall man immediately made the cramped space feel even smaller. I watched his gaze sweep over my old couch with its sagging cushions.

"Where's your bedroom?" he asked suddenly.

My heart fluttered.

"Over there." I pointed to the closed door. Without another word, he walked over and pushed it open. I followed behind him.

My bedroom was tiny—the single bed took up nearly half the space. Ruslan's eyes landed on that bed, then he turned to look at me.

"This is the bed, isn't it?" he continued. "Where you were wearing that pathetic excuse for lingerie when you took those photos."

My face instantly went bright red. He moved closer, and I instinctively backed up until my legs hit the bed. He pushed me down onto it and leaned over me.

"Look at me, Eva." His tone brooked no argument. I raised my head to meet those burning blue eyes.

"This is where you were," he leaned down, "fantasizing about being taken by a complete stranger. Isn't that right?"

"Don't." My voice shook with shame and my racing heartbeat .

"Tell me, Eva, what were you thinking? Were you imagining being pinned down on this bed, being fucked hard?"

His words were crude and direct, sending heat shooting through my lower belly.

"Where's that black lace set? Is it here too?" he asked. I didn't answer, but my eyes unconsciously flicked toward my suitcase.

"In here?" He got up and opened the suitcase, walking back with the lace lingerie held up in front of me. Then he got back on the bed and, right in front of me, brought the fabric to his nose and inhaled softly.

"Still smells like you," he said.

That gesture was more arousing than any dirty talk could have been.

Seeing that devilish amusement on his handsome face, I suddenly didn't want to back down.

I grabbed his collar and yanked him down, pressing my lips against his. He was clearly surprised by my boldness—I saw shock flash in his eyes. But that surprise was quickly replaced by aggressive desire.

He tossed aside the offending fabric and gripped the back of my head, forcing my mouth open with his tongue. He invaded me completely, not giving me a chance to breathe.

My brain went blank. All I could do was grab onto his shoulders instinctively. When the kiss ended, I was still gasping for air.

He leaned down to kiss me again, but just as his lips were about to touch mine, I pulled back. He froze.

I reached up and traced his lips with my index finger—lips that were pressed tight with restraint.

"You're not the only one who gets to tease," I said with a smile. "Consider this payback. Now I need to pack."

I slipped out from under his arms with practiced ease.

"Eva Stone!" He ground out my name through clenched teeth.

I ignored his frustration and turned around, humming tunelessly while I started gathering clothes from around the room. Acting like the woman who'd just played tease-and-run wasn't me at all.

After dinner out, we got back to the mansion around nine PM.

Ruslan had an international conference call in his study. I took a hot bath to wash away the day's exhaustion, then curled up on the soft living room couch with my script, preparing for tomorrow's scenes.

After finishing the script, I felt drowsy but habitually picked up my phone to scroll through Twitter before bed. Checking what people were talking about had become part of my professional routine as an actress.

It helped me stay on top of public opinion and avoid saying or doing the wrong thing.

I scrolled through the trending topics—mostly politics, sports, and celebrity gossip. Pretty boring stuff. I was about to close the app and go to sleep when a hashtag jumped out at me like a slap in the face.

#BentleySugarDaddy

My brain felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. That line of glaring words sat in the middle of the trending list, followed by a rapidly climbing discussion count. A wave of dread washed over me like ice water, spreading from my feet to the top of my head until my blood felt frozen.

My fingers trembled as I tapped on the hashtag. The pinned tweet came from an entertainment gossip blogger with a decent following, accompanied by a high-resolution candid photo.

The background was clearly the set's parking lot.

The subject was me—captured in the exact moment I was bending down to get into the car this afternoon.

The angle was perfectly calculated to show both my face clearly and the black Bentley behind me.

Ruslan, due to the angle, was just an expensive-suited silhouette.

The tweet read: "Spotted! A mystery power player chauffeuring a young actress from the set of 'City of Sins'. Who is this man? The Bentley, the suit, and the presence give off some serious vibes. And who's the lucky girl? #HollywoodSecrets #BentleySugarDaddy"

Below that tweet, the thread had exploded into a cesspit of vicious comments .

"lmaooo hollywood is so fucking dirty. enough money and actresses will spread their legs. look at that face, total bitch vibes"

"this girl is Eva Stone right? looked her up on IMDb, she's done a bunch of extra work playing homewreckers. guess art imitates life"

"girl's got game getting a sugar daddy like that. wonder who he is? must have DEEP pockets to get the whole production catering to her. heard they even switched directors"

"DISGUSTING! hate these women who sleep their way to the top! boycott City of Sins! boycott Eva Stone!"

The tweets kept coming like poisoned arrows, each one aimed straight at my heart. My hands shook with rage—I could barely hold my phone.

In their eyes, all my hard work, my character analysis, the sweat I'd shed on set—none of it mattered. I wasn't actress Eva Stone. I was just a whore trading her body for opportunities.

The worst part? I couldn't even argue with them.

In a way, they were right. My relationship with Ruslan was transactional. I really had gotten this role through his resources. I was living in his mansion, enjoying everything he provided.

The pain and humiliation crushed me.

Tears rolled uncontrollably down my face, hitting my phone screen. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. The pain helped clear my foggy head.

No. I couldn't let this destroy me.

I wiped my tears with the back of my hand as a defiant flame ignited in the depths of my heart.

Eva Stone wouldn't be taken down by some internet gossip.

They could say I was being kept, that I'd slept my way to the top, but the camera didn't lie. My performances didn't lie. They couldn't deny my talent.

Someday, I'd make everyone see that I wasn't just some pretty decoration dependent on men. Someday, I'd be standing on that awards stage.

After making that resolution, some of the crushing weight in my chest lifted. I took a deep breath and prepared to exit the hashtag—out of sight, out of mind.

But when I returned to Twitter's homepage and refreshed the trending topics, I was shocked to find that the hashtag that had been trending just minutes ago was completely gone.

I thought I was seeing things, so I searched for "#BentleySugarDaddy" and my name. The results only showed normal discussions about my character.

The pinned tweet and hundreds of vicious replies had vanished like they'd never existed.

What the hell? I refreshed several more times in disbelief. Same result. It was like an invisible hand had scrubbed the entire platform clean in just a few minutes.

Was it Ruslan? His name appeared clearly in my mind.

Just then, the study door opened. Ruslan walked over and sat beside me, his gaze falling on my face.

"You've been crying." His fingertip brushed my reddened eyes.

"The trending topic and all those posts disappeared," I said, my voice still stuffy from crying. "Did you do that?"

He didn't answer immediately. He reached out and wrapped my hands in his warm, dry palms.

"Their words are meaningless." He looked seriously into my eyes.

"Eva, your talent and your acting are real. I believe you'll be standing on that awards stage."

"I just cleaned up some garbage," he said slowly.

Ruslan's affirmation was the greatest comfort he could give me. He always made me feel safe. My nose stung, and I almost started crying again.

Then he pulled me tightly into his arms. His embrace was warm and strong. I buried my face deep in his chest, listening to his heartbeat, breathing in that reassuring cedar scent.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of my head and rested his chin there.

"Eva," he said softly, like a sigh. "I don't want to see you cry."