BHE | Chapter 3: The Test of Loyalty

The sun rose over the mansion with a deceptive calm, casting long, golden shadows across the garden that had been the stage for the previous day’s scandal.

Beatriz was at the breakfast nook, sipping black coffee and nursing a slow, private ache in her limbs, when the sound of a high-end engine tore through the quiet. A sleek, red sports car screeched to a halt in the driveway.

Fatima Lawrence didn’t just arrive; she invaded.

She stepped out of the car, looking impeccably styled in oversized Dior sunglasses and a silk headscarf, but her aura vibrated with cold, calculated fury. She hadn’t gone back to the city to lick her wounds; she had gone back to arm herself with suspicion.

“Back so soon?” Beatriz asked, raising an eyebrow as Fatima marched into the house, her heels clicking like a countdown on the marble floor.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Fatima snapped, tossing her keys onto the glass table. She pulled off her shades, revealing eyes that were sharp and searching. “I kept thinking about that gardener of yours. Paulo.”

Beatriz kept her expression a mask of bored indifference. “I thought you were done with the ‘peasant’ after your little… ego bruise.”

“That’s just it, B,” Fatima leaned in, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I’ve never been rejected. Not once. A man like that—a man with nothing—doesn’t say no to a woman like me unless he’s already being fed elsewhere. Unless he’s loyal to someone.”

She began to pace, her eyes darting toward the window that overlooked the greenhouse.

“And then I remembered your face when I told you I wanted him. You were too quiet. Too ‘disinterested.’ It was a performance.” Fatima stopped and smirked, a predatory glint in her eyes. “I think you’ve been hiding the best part of this estate from your best friend. I think the ‘toy’ belongs to the Señorita.”

“You’re being delusional, Fatima,” Beatriz said, though her heart hammered against her ribs.

“Am I?” Fatima walked toward the door leading to the gardens. “Let’s go find him. I want to see how he reacts when both of us are in the room. I want to see if he can keep that ‘professional’ mask on when his mistress is watching.”

Beatriz set her coffee cup down with a soft clink. The game had changed. Fatima wasn’t looking for a fling anymore; she was looking for a scandal she could use as a weapon.

A cold shiver of adrenaline slid down Beatriz’s spine. She knew Fatima. If she let her hunt Paulo down in the greenhouse now, the woman would smell the lingering truth on him like a bloodhound. She needed to change the setting, reset the roles, and see if Paulo could withstand the pressure.

“A formal confrontation in the dirt? How gauche, Fatima,” Beatriz said, standing up with a graceful, practiced nonchalance. “If you’re so obsessed with my gardener’s ‘loyalty,’ let’s put him to a real test. I’m hosting an impromptu pool party tonight. Just the inner circle. High stakes, higher proof.”

Fatima paused, her hand on the doorframe. “A party? To prove what?”

“To prove he’s just a servant,” Beatriz lied smoothly. “I’ll have him wait on us hand and foot. You can flaunt yourself all you want. If he’s as ‘loyal’ as you think, he won’t even blink. If he’s just a man… well, then you get your ‘dessert’ after all.”

Fatima’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. “Challenge accepted.”

By 9:00 PM, the mansion’s poolside was transformed into a den of hedonism. Expensive champagne flowed, and the bass of the music pulsed through the floorboards. Beatriz wore a daring, sheer sarong over a bikini that left little to the imagination.

But all eyes—especially Fatima’s—were on Paulo.

He had been ordered to wear a crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal his powerful forearms, and black slacks that hugged his thighs. He moved through the crowd of socialites with a tray of drinks, his face a mask of stoic professionalism.

Beatriz watched him from a lounger, her skin prickling. She knew what was under that shirt. She knew the heat of his skin and the way those hands felt when they weren’t holding a silver tray.

Fatima, dressed in a crimson dress that was practically a second skin, intercepted him near the edge of the pool.

“Paulo, dear,” Fatima purred, taking a champagne flute, her fingers lingering, squeezing his hand. “It’s so hot out here. Don’t you think you’re overdressed?”

Paulo didn’t flinch. “I am dressed as the Señorita requested, Miss Lawrence.”

“The Señorita isn’t looking right now,” Fatima whispered, leaning in so close her chest brushed his arm. She reached up, slowly unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. “I think you’d be much more comfortable… open.”

From across the deck, Beatriz felt a surge of possessive rage. She caught Paulo’s eyes for a split second. Behind his blank expression, she saw a flicker of that same raw hunger from the library—a silent plea for her to end this charade before he snapped.

Beatriz stood up, her hips swaying as she walked toward them. “Is there a problem with the service, Fatima?”

“Not at all,” Fatima laughed, her eyes never leaving Paulo’s. “I was just telling Paulo that he looks like he’s bursting out of this shirt. I’d hate for him to be… uncomfortable.”

Fatima leaned over to whisper in Paulo’s ear, loud enough for Beatriz to hear. “I’m going to the wine cellar in five minutes to pick out a vintage. I’ll need someone strong to help me carry the crates. Don’t make me wait.”

She patted his chest and walked away, throwing a triumphant look over her shoulder at Beatriz.

Five minutes later, the wine cellar was cool and dim, smelling of aged oak and damp stone. Fatima waited in the shadows, her dress unzipped halfway down her back.

The door creaked open. A silhouette entered.

“I knew you couldn’t resist,” Fatima said, turning around with a sultry smile.

But it wasn’t Paulo. It was Beatriz.

“He’s busy cleaning up a spill by the pool,” Beatriz said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. She stepped closer, the heavy cellar door clicking shut behind her. “And I think you’ve had enough ‘service’ for one night, Fatima.”

“Are you jealous, B?” Fatima taunted. “Or are you just scared I’ll prove you’re sleeping with the help?”

“I’m not scared of anything,” Beatriz whispered. She signaled toward the dark corner of the cellar. “But I think you should see what happens when you try to take what belongs to me.”

From the shadows, Paulo stepped out. His shirt was now completely unbuttoned, his chest heaving. He didn’t look like a servant anymore. He looked like a predator.

The air in the wine cellar was thick with the scent of fermenting grapes and cold stone, but the heat radiating between the three of them was suffocating.

Fatima’s smirk faltered as Paulo stepped into the dim light. He didn’t look at her with the polite subservience of a waiter; he looked at Beatriz with a raw, terrifying hunger that made Fatima’s blood run cold. She realized then that she hadn’t uncovered a scandal—she had walked into a trap.

“You wanted to see his loyalty, Fatima?” Beatriz whispered, her voice smooth as velvet and sharp as a razor. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll let you see who he really serves.”

Beatriz turned to Paulo, her eyes flashing with a possessive fire. “Paulo. Strip.”

Without a second of hesitation, Paulo tore the white shirt from his shoulders, the buttons skittering across the stone floor like hail. His bronzed chest, slick with the sweat of the humid night, heaved. He stepped toward Beatriz, ignoring Fatima as if she were a ghost.

“On the tasting table,” Beatriz commanded, pointing to the heavy oak slab in the center of the cellar.

Beatriz climbed onto the table, her sheer sarong falling away. She lay back, her pale skin glowing against the dark wood, and looked directly at Fatima, who stood frozen in the shadows. “Don’t leave, Fatima. You’ve been so curious. Watch. Learn.”

Paulo didn’t wait. He moved between Beatriz’s legs with a primal urgency, his hands gripping her thighs and dragging her toward him. He unbuckled his belt, his movements jagged and wild.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice echoing off the wine racks. “Tell her.”

“I am yours,” Beatriz gasped, her fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling his head down. “Show her, Paulo. Claim me so she never forgets.”

He drove into her with a savage force that made the heavy oak table groan. Beatriz’s head hit the wood as she let out a high, sharp cry of ecstasy. The sound was a slap to Fatima’s face.

The scene was visceral and raw. Paulo was relentless, his muscles rippling under the dim yellow light as he hammered into her, his thrusts deep and unyielding. Every impact sent a wet, rhythmic sound through the cellar. He wasn’t being careful; he was being violent in his devotion.

Fatima watched, her breath hitching, her hand trembling as she gripped the cold stone wall. She had wanted to play a game of seduction, but this wasn’t a game. This was a war of the senses. She saw the way Beatriz’s back arched, the way her nails drew blood on Paulo’s shoulders, and the way Paulo’s eyes stayed locked on Beatriz’s face, utterly consumed.

“Look at her, Fatima!” Beatriz cried out, her voice breaking as the pleasure began to overwhelm her. “See how he takes me? See how he doesn’t even know you’re in the room?”

Paulo reached down, grabbing Beatriz’s waist and flipping her over on the table with a rough, sudden motion. He pressed her face down against the cold wood, his hand fisted in her hair to hold her steady as he continued his brutal, rhythmic assault.

“Aah! God… Paulo!” Beatriz screamed, her voice echoing through the cellar, a haunting melody of pain and pure, unadulterated bliss.

The air was filled with the sound of their combined exertion—the gasps, the grunts, and the unmistakable friction of their bodies. Fatima felt a sickening mix of envy and terror. She saw the mark of the “hampaslupa”—the raw, untamed power that wealth could never buy.

As they both reached the shattering peak, Paulo buried his face in the crook of Beatriz’s neck, a guttural roar escaping his throat as he surrendered everything inside her. Beatriz collapsed, her body twitching in the aftermath, her eyes glazed and triumphant.

After a long, heavy silence, Paulo stood up and slowly began to dress, his back to Fatima. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

Beatriz sat up slowly, her hair a chaotic mess, her lips swollen. She looked at the trembling Fatima and smiled—a cold, beautiful victor’s smile.

“Now,” Beatriz said, her voice raspy. “Get out of my house. And if you ever speak his name again, I’ll make sure the city knows exactly what you were doing on your knees in my wine cellar.”