BHE | Chapter 1: The Greenhouse Secret

“Your gardener is breathtaking, Beatriz.”

Fatima’s gaze lingered on the young man tending the vibrant blooms in the sprawling garden below. From the mansion’s second-floor pool deck, the two women watched him work beneath the relentless sun. He was shirtless, his skin bronzed to a deep, rich mahogany. The marks of labor only made him more dangerous to look at.

Beatriz’s mother had taken him in as a child, and he had served the family ever since.

“He’s handsome enough,” Beatriz replied, her voice flat and disinterested. “But he is, after all, just a gardener.”

“Don’t you like that?” Fatima countered, flashing a wicked wink. “You have your very own toy whenever you’re bored.”

“The thought of stooping to a common laborer has never even crossed my mind.”

“In that case,” Fatima said lightly, her smile thick with suggestion, ““do you mind if I try him for myself?”

“Do as you please,” Beatriz answered coldly, before diving into the turquoise depths of the pool.

After dinner, Fatima retreated to Beatriz’s room. Fresh from the shower, she sifted through the wardrobe with predatory focus.

“Planning on raiding my entire closet?” Beatriz asked, watching her scrutinize garment after garment.

“I need to be irresistible,” Fatima purred. “I want him to claim me without a second thought.”

Beatriz laughed. “It sounds like you’re the one planning the attack. Just try not to embarrass yourself.”

“Me? Embarrassed?” Fatima scoffed. “No man has ever survived my charms.”

She chose a backless black dress and pinned her hair up, exposing the elegant line of her neck and the smooth expanse of her chest. “Well? How do I look?”

Beatriz shook her head. “I don’t understand why you’re wasting all that effort on a servant.”

“He’s hot. I don’t care,” Fatima laughed, giving herself one last glance in the mirror before heading toward the servant’s quarters to find Paulo, her intended dessert for the evening.

She knocked, already smiling in triumph.

When the door opened, Paulo stood there fresh from a shower, a towel slung low around his hips. Fatima’s breath caught. Water still clung to his skin, tracing the hard lines of his chest like an open invitation.

“Miss Fatima?” Paulo asked, breaking her trance.

Fatima didn’t answer with words. She looped her arms around his neck, her eyes burning with intent.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, hesitating, sharpening his voice as he tried to step back.

“What do you think?” she replied, pushing him inside and kicking the door shut. Her palm pressed to his chest, sliding downward with deliberate slowness.

Paulo recoiled.

“Beatriz gave me permission,” Fatima whispered. “You’re going to take care of me tonight.”

Shock crossed his face, quickly followed by something darker.

“Come on,” she urged, reaching for him. “Let’s have some fun.”

Paulo turned his head just in time, her lips meeting nothing but air.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” he said firmly. “I’m not interested.”

Fatima froze, her eyes wide with disbelief.

He stepped aside and held the door open. “Please leave.”

Fatima fled, heat crawling up her neck, disbelief burning behind her eyes. She was Fatima Lawrence. Being rejected by a gardener didn’t make sense to her.

“That was fast,” Beatriz remarked when Fatima returned. She kept her face neutral, hiding the knowing curve of her lips.

“He rejected me! Can you believe that? A peasant turned me down? God, I can’t stay here!”

The next morning, Fatima left the estate, her pride in ruins.

Meanwhile, Beatriz made her way to the greenhouse. Inside, Paulo stood with his back to her, meticulously pruning a wilting red rose. She approached silently and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind.

“Are you upset with me?” she whispered against his back.

He remained silent.

“I only wanted to see if you would give in to her—”

Before she could finish, Paulo spun around, his hands gripping her shoulders with bruising intensity.

“You played me for a fool,” he rasped.

Paulo crushed his lips against hers, anger and wanting to collide in a punishing kiss. He tore at the buttons of her elegant blouse, exposing her pale, flawless skin before his hands found the weight of her breasts, claiming them with a rough familiarity. Beatriz gasped, her eyes fluttering shut at the sharp collision of pain and pleasure.

When he finally let her breathe, her lips were swollen and flushed. Without a word, he lifted her and laid her down upon the soft, manicured grass of the greenhouse floor.

“How could you do that to me?” he muttered, his voice thick. He stripped away the last of her silk barriers, using the fabric to bind her wrists together above her head.

With a raw, urgent motion, he parted her thighs and bared himself. Beatriz let out a sharp, ragged breath as he drove into her without warning, filling her completely.

“T-That hurts!” she hissed, biting her lip as the initial sting radiated through her. Yet, despite the pain, her body arched to welcome him, her thighs tightening around his waist.

“Did you think about my pain?” Paulo countered, his thrusts becoming a rhythmic, relentless reclamation of what was his. Beatriz could do nothing but moan, her voice echoing through the glass walls as he worked her body like the earth he tended.

The bonds at her wrists tightened as she struggled to find purchase, wanting to sink her nails into his back. Paulo’s hand moved to her chest, squeezing firmly as he maintained his frantic pace.

“Aaaah! Pau!” she cried out. He was “digging” deep into her, his movements heavy and primal against the cool grass that tickled her skin.

He leaned down, biting her shoulder as he moved inside her. “Ah! A—Aaah! K-Kiss m-me…” she pleaded, desperate for his touch.

He finally met her mouth, his tongue sweeping inside with the same possessive hunger as his body. The world outside—the servants sweeping leaves and the quiet morning air—was a million miles away. Inside the greenhouse, there was only the heat of their friction and the scent of crushed greenery.

Every rough movement told her the same thing. Anger. Want. Something dangerously close to love. She wasn’t afraid. She knew this was her punishment, and she reveled in it. He was hers. He would never belong to anyone else.

As they reached the peak, Beatriz squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the rush of heat as he surrendered himself inside her. She lay there for a moment, savoring the frantic thrum of his pulse against her inner walls.

When he finally untied her hands, her first instinct was to pull him back down, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. His heavy, hot breath against her skin sent a new wave of electricity through her. With a sudden burst of strength, Beatriz shifted, pushing him onto his back and climbing on top of him.

She felt him stir within her once more. Her hips began a slow, deliberate grind, her gaze locked onto his with unwavering intensity.

“You are mine,” she whispered. “Only mine.”

The air in the greenhouse tightened as Beatriz took control, slow and deliberate. The shift in power only fanned the flames of Paulo’s desire, turning his initial anger into a smoldering, focused hunger.

Paulo’s hands, rough and calloused from years of labor, reached up to grip Beatriz’s hips, his fingers digging into her skin to anchor her. He watched her through hooded eyes, mesmerized by the way she looked—disheveled, golden, and utterly consumed by him.

“Say it again,” Paulo challenged, his voice a low growl that vibrated through her body.

“You are mine,” she repeated, her voice steadier now, punctuated by the slow, agonizing rhythm she set. She leaned down, her hair falling like a silken curtain around them, isolating them in a world made only of glass and heat. “I own every inch of you, Paulo. Every drop of sweat, every breath you take… it belongs to me.”

He groaned, a sound of pure surrender, and arched his hips to meet her. The friction was exquisite. The soft grass beneath him and the weight of the woman he had loved from afar for years created a sensory overload. Here, hidden behind glass and leaves, he was no servant at all.

“Then take what’s yours,” he rasped.

Beatriz’s movements became more frantic, her poise finally shattering. The “punishment” he had started had transformed into a mutual craving that neither could satisfy. She threw her head back, her cries echoing against the glass panes, competing with the distant sounds of the estate’s morning chores. Outside, the world was orderly and rigid; inside, it was beautifully chaotic.

As the final wave crashed over them, Paulo pulled her down for a searing kiss, drinking in her gasps. They collapsed against each other, skin slick and hearts hammering in a synchronized frantic beat.

The Aftermath

Minutes passed as the silence of the greenhouse returned, save for their heavy breathing. Paulo gently stroked her back, his anger completely evaporated, replaced by a fierce protectiveness.

“Fatima will be halfway to the city by now,” Beatriz whispered, tracing the lines of his chest.

“I don’t care about her,” Paulo replied, his voice soft but firm. “I never did. But don’t ever use me as a test again, Beatriz. I am not a toy.”

She looked at him, seeing the man behind the title of ‘gardener’—the man who knew her better than her own family. She had always spoken as if she owned him, yet it was her breath that caught when he touched her.

The air in the greenhouse was still heavy with the scent of damp earth and skin when the sharp, rhythmic skritch-skritch of a broom grew dangerously loud just outside the glass panes.

Beatriz froze, her heart leaping into her throat. Through the condensation on the glass, she could see the blurred silhouette of Mang Simon, the head groundskeeper, heading straight toward the greenhouse door.

“Paulo? Are you in there?” the old man’s gravelly voice called out. “I need the shears for the hedges.”

Panic flared in Beatriz’s eyes. She was half-clothed, her hair a wild mess, and her skin flushed a tell-tale crimson. Paulo reacted with the silent, fluid grace of someone used to moving in the shadows. He threw her blouse to her, gesturing urgently toward the tall, thick ferns in the back corner.

“One second, Mang Simon!” Paulo shouted back, his voice remarkably steady despite his ragged breathing. He scrambled into his trousers, snapping them shut just as the door handle rattled.

Beatriz ducked behind a wall of tropical foliage, her fingers trembling as she tried to force buttons through holes.

The door creaked open. The humid air from the greenhouse rushed out, and Mang Simon stepped inside, squinting through his thick glasses. “You’re sweating buckets, boy. It’s not even midday.”

“Hard work, Mang Simon,” Paulo said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and stepping forward to block the old man’s view of the back rows. “The roses were… stubborn today.”

The old man’s eyes wandered, pausing for a terrifying second on a patch of flattened grass where they had just been. Beatriz held her breath, pressing her back against the cool glass, praying the rustle of her silk slip wouldn’t betray her.

“Hmph. Well, get me those shears. And tell the Señorita if you see her—her mother is looking for her in the main house.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Paulo promised.

The moment the door clicked shut and Simon’s footsteps faded, Beatriz collapsed against a potting bench, letting out a shaky breath. “That was too close.”

Paulo turned to her, a dark, playful glint returning to his eyes. “Too close for you, maybe. For me, the risk just makes the reward sweeter.”