My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas
Chapter 111: Perfect Fragrance Alibi ( Lucrezia’s POV )

Chapter 111: Perfect Fragrance Alibi ( Lucrezia’s POV )

"You look pretty."

"No, darling, I look beautiful. But you were always simple-minded."

"Still as mean as always."

"Seems like your hands are still lingering as if you were young again."

It wasn’t a surprise to me just how fast the Prime Minister fumbled on the night of his death.

I’ve always taught Clara to strike men only in two periods of time in their lives for the best results-

Young and inexperienced.

Old enough to go coffin shopping.

The logistics behind it were quite simple. When a man is young and just popped his little empty head into the business field, the first thing he will do is look for alliances. Knowing the right people means power.

Yet, the moment a man desperately grabs connections is the perfect moment to go for the kill.

Impressionable and lacking, if you throw just a few compliments and bring him two or three investors, he’ll be in your debt. Because he wants to be.

Since the beginning of time, men have craved two types of women: the motherly figure who takes care of them and the tease. The woman in red lipstick and high heels who promises a good time with no obligation. The wife who gives it all and obeys and the mistress who plays around and dominates.

In simpler terms, he wants to both be a figure of respect for the woman who disgustingly babies him and to be left free of responsibility with the woman who can drown him in pleasure.

Both women are incomplete. One can’t dominate without acquiring the title of nagging wife and one can’t be more than an escape.

The man will always go back to his wife.

Not out of love, but out of necessity and social norm.

The mistress can’t provide the same care without destroying her pedestal. When the fantasy breaks, the mistress would just be replaced.

So, I taught my dear Clara how to strike the perfect woman. Not enough of the motherly figure, not enough of the temptress.

It is all in the attitude, not the act itself.

Let’s say my dear Clara just observed a new rising company with a young CEO who can market our pharmaceutical company better.

She is not to go and present herself bare with a proposal of wanting a partnership.

Rather, she would use another man to recommend her to the CEO. Men only trust men.

When getting into contact, she will arrange a meeting where she will be perfectly professional, yet disinterested in most of the conversation.

When the time of the meeting is nearly up, she would suddenly cling to a detail that would sell her on the deal.

From there, the man would jump through hoops to impress. My dear Clara would be arrogantly teasing, eternally displeased at nothing, yet so immersed in the project, the poor man would spend his aching nights trying to figure it out how to satisfy her.

When the deal would finally be sealed, not earlier than a month after, Clara would bring in some of her friends- less powerful than her, yet still important clientele. And wave him goodbye.

Men adapt to routines. As long as they keep themselves entertained.

So when my dear daughter breaks his routines of seeking her approval and longing after her, he would be doomed to transform the professional relationship into a personal one.

And from there, the cat and mouse game will continue as long as the man is useful.

The mistress game will be spotted with carefully planned acts of genuine care, just enough for the man to fall in love with something he seems as untouchable.

The old men are easier. Surrounded all their lives by wealth and fakery, they crave the affection of a wife.

But their lives were filled with lust, so a singular wife would feel like a death threat to their degraded minds.

So my dear Clara would use the business meetings to be extra careful and caring around the old foxes— pouring alcohol, asking rather oblivious questions so they can display their knowledge and get an ego tug and rub.

Just enough to get noticed.

But upon the first conversation, she would switch the obedient and reserved side she exhibited in public for a much more teasing and playful behavior.

The wife’s play would be spotted with the mistress’s tease just enough to keep the walking corpse interested.

Nonetheless, Cassian Wilkers was a special case.

Because we have history.

A past.

A disgusting story behind us.

Maybe that was why when his grabby hands moved on my waist in a private room, I was already familiar with that touch.

Yet, the past is the past and what once was something that would make my body shiver in expectation, now feels filthy and cheap.

"Lucrezia... I’ve missed you so much..."

"Of course you did, darling. Between your frigid wife, your failure of an heir and all the Parliamentary getting aware of your little trick, you must be tired."

"You always understood me, Lu."

"Don’t call me that. That is how your son is called now and however grand of a gesture you thought naming your son after me was, I find it utterly tasteless."

"So hard to please."

Cassian’s mouth drags along my neck, hot and wet, and I feel nothing but revulsion.

His tongue flicks, leaves a slick trail I want scrubbed off with bleach.

He sucks at my skin like it’s worth something, like I’d ever give him that satisfaction. I keep my face still, the practiced mask of a woman who knows how to sell a lie.

A small breath escapes me, calculated, controlled. He probably thinks it’s pleasure. Idiot.

His lips move lower, slow, deliberate.

I want to shove him off, but I don’t. After all, the man will be dead in just a few hours from now.

My spine stays rigid, my body playing along in silence.

Fifty years of perfection—tight skin, sculpted jaw, not a single line out of place—and here he is ruining it with his touch.

His stubble scratches, cheap and crude against the thousands I’ve spent on this skin. I taste bitterness at the back of my throat.

His hand grips my waist, fingers pressing too hard.

It makes me sick.

Everything about him makes me sick. The way he breathes like he owns the air between us, the way he moves like he’s giving me something I should be grateful for. I imagine peeling his hands off, snapping those fingers one by one.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

I am sure he is remembering all the times I was stupid enough to love his touch.

Back when we were younger.

Before his son.

Before he got married.

I tilt my head, let him think he’s winning. It’s almost amusing—his eagerness, his need. Men are always like this.

Hungry, pathetic.

He lingers at my collarbone, sucking like he wants to leave a mark.

As if I’d ever let anyone stain me. Inside, I’m cold steel.

Outside, I give him nothing but a whisper of fake heat. He doesn’t know I’m counting every second, every breath, until this is over. Disgust crawls under my skin, but my face stays flawless.

I am untouchable.

Even when he’s touching me.

Cassian’s mouth was still dragging across my skin when the door burst open.

The sound was sharp, a crack against the heavy silence.

Barbara stood there, framed by the doorway, diamonds glittering at her throat like they mattered.

Her face was pale, eyes wide. She looked almost human for once.

Almost.

The necklace moved before I even processed it.

Her hand ripped it off, diamonds snapping free from her neck, and then it flew across the room.

It hit Cassian’s head with a dull thud.

He jerked back, stunned, his mouth frozen where it had been on my skin.

For the first time, he looked ridiculous.

I almost laughed.

Barbara—the eternal statue, the obedient shadow—had finally done something other than nod and smile.

Her chest was heaving. She was trembling, barely holding herself together.

And I loved it.

I loved watching her break. All those years of quiet compliance, and now this: a tantrum wrapped in silk.

Finally, she is standing her ground.

Despite our rugged connection across the years, I’ve always pitied her for not knowing how to play the game.

But in that moment, I couldn’t help but feel proud of her.

Cassian stared at her like he didn’t understand the world anymore.

His confusion was delicious.

His wife, the perfect accessory, was suddenly unhinged.

I smiled. I didn’t even try to hide it.

Slowly, deliberately, I pressed his face lower, into the deep cut of my dress.

The movement was subtle, but it was enough. Barbara saw it.

I made sure of that.

A little push.

Just enough force to place her exactly where I want on my chessboard.

Her expression collapsed.

The heat in her eyes burned out in an instant.

She went hollow, like someone had sucked the life out of her.

For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Just stared, mouth slightly open, the way a child stares at an accident they can’t comprehend.

Then she turned.

No words.

No scream.

Nothing but the slam of the door as she left.

The sound reverberated through the room.

Cassian flinched, then froze, as if expecting me to pull away.

I didn’t.

Why would I?

After all, if his wife will kill him to, that would do nothing but please me.

He looked dazed, still reeling from the sight of his wife losing control for the first time in her bland, useless life.

And then, like the pathetic animal he was, he went back to me.

His mouth found my skin again, eager, desperate.

I let him.

Not because I wanted it—God, no.

His touch still disgusted me, every wet trace of him on my body felt like filth I’d burn off later.

But watching him cling harder now, watching him act as if nothing had happened?

That was exquisite.

He licked, kissed, sucked—lower now, devouring the edge of my chest as if he could drown in it. I stared past him, perfectly still, perfectly in control.

My smile didn’t waver.

He didn’t notice the smile. Men never notice. Too busy feeding, too busy convincing themselves they’re the conquerors, when all they are is prey.

Yet, he was kissing and sinking into his own death. And he had no idea.

I tilted my chin higher, exposing more skin for him to worship, though the thought made bile rise in my throat.

He licked like a starved animal, chasing something he’d never find. I let him chase.

That was the game.

Let him believe.

Let him sink.

Let him die.

His breath was heavy, ragged against me, but all I heard was the echo of that door slamming.

The perfect alibi for my perfect crime.

Have you guessed yet what killed the Prime Minister yet?