Fucking the Whore and the Gunpoint Proposal

She despised every single fiber of his existence. Sitting rigidly on the edge of the mattress like a decorative porcelain figure, Maren forcibly masked the sheer outrage flooding her system. Humiliation and a deeply stubborn pride collided in her chest. This towering brute was actively dismissing her as some helpless airhead. A damsel in distress? A ruined, spoiled heiress waiting to be saved?

To hell with him.

She had already endured the crushing weight of her father’s blind accusations, the total betrayal of her own blood, and the devastating scandal that had permanently wiped out her reputation back in the States. There was absolutely no way she was going to sit in silence and take this patronizing garbage from a monster in a tailored suit.

The second Enrico turned his broad back toward her, raw adrenaline hijacked her limbs. Maren launched herself off the mattress. Her bare feet slapped against the floor as she lunged forward, aggressively snatching his massive hand and pulling hard to spin him around.

"You arrogant prick!" she screamed, her voice ripping through the sterile quiet of the suite. "What makes you think I would ever want a damn thing from you? The only reason we are even in the same room is because I just woke up! I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man breathing!"

Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, her blonde-dyed brown hair flying wildly around her face. It took a split second for the metallic clatter to register in her brain. Every single security guard in the room had drawn their weapons, the black muzzles of their rifles leveled squarely at her chest.

"Get on the ground before we drop you," one of the guards commanded sharply.

Enrico simply raised a single finger. The entire room went dead silent.

The guards froze in place, lowering their stances but keeping their grips tight. Enrico looked utterly stunned. A man of his stature and violent reputation was never handled this way. No woman had ever dared to lay a hand on him in anger, let alone look him dead in the eye with such unfiltered contempt.

His expression shifted into a cold, dangerous mask as he took a deliberate step toward her. He towered over her small frame, a massive wall of muscle casting a dark shadow over her pale skin. Maren held her ground, her fingers still wrapped defiantly around his thick, tanned bicep.

Moving with agonizing slowness, Enrico reached up. He peeled her trembling fingers off his arm, one by one, using an inescapable grip. He closed the remaining physical distance between them until there was barely an inch of space left. The radiating heat of his anger rolled off his skin, suffocating her in a heavy, musky cloud of rich sandalwood.

"Don't ever lay a hand on me again," he whispered. The chilling frequency of his voice bypassed her ears entirely, sinking straight into her bones. "If I come back and find you still standing here, I will make you beg for an end."

Maren’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Without sparing her another glance, Enrico shoved his hands into his pockets, walked past his mother, and exited the suite. The armed guards immediately fell into step behind him, the heavy double doors clicking shut in their wake.

The sheer weight of his presence left the room, and Maren’s knees buckled. She slid down the textured wallpaper until she hit the freezing marble floor. Hot, bitter tears spilled over her lashes. A suffocating blanket of isolation and utter helplessness wrapped tightly around her trembling shoulders.

"Fascinating," Renata’s calm voice sliced through the quiet. "My son rarely allows himself to get worked up over a woman. This will work beautifully. You will be married by the end of the week."

Maren snapped her head up, entirely ignoring the two maids who stood as still as statues near the wardrobe.

"Are you insane?" Maren pushed herself off the marble, aggressively wiping her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. "Did you not hear a word he just said? I am walking out of here right now."

Renata remained completely unfazed. She moved gracefully to the edge of the bed, perching on the mattress and elegantly crossing her legs.

"Walking out to where, exactly? Your family estate? A luxury hotel? You have nothing left to your name, Maren."

The sheer lack of emotion in the older woman's delivery felt like a physical blow. Maren swallowed the thick knot in her throat, forcing her spine straight.

"I'll figure it out," Maren shot back. "Thanks for the room."

She turned her back and took a firm step toward the exit.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news," Renata stated smoothly, stopping Maren dead in her tracks. "But your dear stepmother made absolutely sure to broadcast the fabricated details of your betrayal to every major business mogul and syndicate in the city. You are blacklisted. No one will take in a marked traitor. You will be dead by morning if you walk out those doors."

A cold sweat broke out across the back of Maren’s neck. Genuine, paralyzing fear locked her joints in place. She slowly turned around, meeting Renata’s chilling, empty gaze. It was the exact same emotionless stare her son possessed.

"And yet you brought me into your home," Maren countered, her voice dropping to a cautious murmur.

Renata stood up, closing the distance between them. "No. You were originally slated to be sold off to the Marchetti family. I stepped in and paid double for you. This isn't charity, Maren. I bought you, and you are going to marry my son."

Complete dread washed through Maren’s veins. One of the silent maids stepped forward, extending a thick manila folder. Maren stared at the documents, her eyes scanning the heavy signatures that legally and irrevocably transferred ownership of her life to the Di Ravelli family. She was nothing more than a piece of property auctioned off to the highest bidder.

Fighting the overwhelming urge to collapse, Maren tried desperately to pull on her old business negotiation tactics.

"I... you saw his reaction," Maren stammered, her voice shaking despite her best efforts. "Even if I agreed, he doesn't want me. Find someone else. I can work off the debt for you instead."

Renata reached out, her cool fingers lightly cupping Maren’s pale cheek. A faint, knowing smile touched her red lips.

"No, Maren. It has to be you. If any other woman had grabbed my son the way you just did, she would be missing her hand by now."

***

Maren violently emptied the meager contents of her stomach into the porcelain toilet bowl.

Gasping for air, she pushed herself up and stumbled to the massive marble sink. She turned on the gold faucet, aggressively splashing freezing water onto her face. Her sunken, exhausted eyes stared back at her from the vanity mirror. Her cheek still carried a faint, lingering ache from where her father had struck her. He had never been satisfied with anything she did, not even when she dyed her natural blonde hair brown and wore colored contacts just to hide the fact that she looked exactly like her late mother.

Every single person she trusted had thrown her to the wolves. She had zero money, zero allies, and absolutely nowhere to run. Even if she somehow managed to slip past the heavily armed guards patrolling the estate corridors, she wouldn't last a day on the streets with a bounty on her head.

*You are a marked traitor, Maren. Only as Rico's wife will you have protection. No one would dare touch you if you marry him.*

Renata's cold logic echoed relentlessly in her skull.

Maren stepped out of the bathroom, wrapping her arms tightly around her own ribs. She stood in the center of the lavish bedroom for several long minutes, letting the final piece of her pride wither away. Slowly, she walked over to the nightstand, picked up the heavy brass receiver, and pressed the single speed-dial button.

The line clicked open on the very first ring.

"Have you made your decision, Maren?"

The predatory smoothness of Renata's tone made Maren’s skin crawl. She dragged her trembling fingers through her tangled hair and swallowed hard.

"Yes. I have."

***

"Is this really necessary?" Maren asked, her voice tight with disbelief.

She had barely hung up the phone when Renata marched right back into the suite, flanked by the same two stone-faced maids carrying garment bags and heavy makeup cases. It was exactly five o'clock in the morning.

Renata completely ignored the question, snapping her fingers to direct the maids.

For the next hour, Maren was subjected to a ruthless, aggressive makeover. They stripped her down and forced her into a ridiculously short, skin-tight designer dress that barely covered her backside. The maids applied heavy, dramatic smokey-eye makeup, painted her lips a bold, blood-red, and strapped her feet into agonizingly high stilettos.

Maren stared at her reflection, her chest tightening with disgust. The exposed cleavage, the heavy makeup, the towering heels—she looked exactly like a high-end escort prepped for a very expensive client.

"I refuse to wear this," Maren snapped, taking a step away from the mirror.

Renata instantly closed the gap, her manicured hand clamping down hard on Maren’s bare shoulder. Her smile didn't reach her cold eyes.

"This isn't about what you want. You know exactly what happens if you fail to convince Rico to marry you."

The brutal reminder of her impending death knocked the defiance right out of her lungs. Maren blinked back the burning sting of unshed tears.

"I die."

Renata’s grip tightened painfully on her collarbone. "Smart girl. Now, rehearse the pitch again, and do not forget to call me 'mom'."

***

The sleek, armored town car pulled to a smooth halt.

Maren stared out the tinted window at the massive, monolithic corporate headquarters bearing the glowing 'Di Ravelli' logo. Her stomach twisted into brutal knots. She mumbled a quiet thanks to the driver, pushed the heavy door open, and stepped out into the damp morning air. Her palms were sweating profusely, making it difficult to grip her small designer purse.

Following Renata's strict infiltration instructions, Maren approached the private executive elevator. She swiped the encrypted black keycard over the scanner. The heavy steel doors slid open seamlessly.

*Use every method to convince him. It is the only way you survive.*

Maren bit down hard on the inside of her cheek as the elevator launched upward. The high-speed ascent made her ears pop, but it did nothing to drown out the frantic hammering of her own heart. The display dinged softly, and the doors glided apart to reveal the sprawling, dimly lit expanse of the top-floor penthouse.

Maren took a cautious, trembling step onto the plush carpeting.

The unmistakable, wet sound of flesh slapping violently against flesh immediately assaulted her ears. It was accompanied by ragged, breathy moans echoing from the center of the massive room. Maren froze dead in her tracks.

She had walked straight into a highly graphic scene.

In the middle of the sprawling king-sized bed, Enrico’s heavily muscled, sweat-slicked body was aggressively driving into a naked woman from behind. His hips snapped forward with brutal, rhythmic force, his broad back flexing violently with every deep thrust.

The woman, clutching the silk sheets, suddenly turned her head. Her eyes blew wide in shock as she spotted Maren standing completely paralyzed in the doorway. She let out a sharp, terrified scream.

Reacting with the lethal speed of a trained predator, Enrico didn't even flinch. He smoothly withdrew from the woman, pivoted sharply, and snatched a loaded semi-automatic handgun straight off the nightstand. In one fluid motion, he aimed the black barrel directly at the center of Maren’s forehead.

"Didn't I make myself perfectly clear the last time?" His voice was entirely devoid of emotion, the metallic click of the gun's safety echoing loudly across the massive suite. "Give me one valid reason I shouldn't blow your brains all over my floor right now."

Maren hitched a desperate breath, forcing herself to look down the barrel of the lethal weapon. She swallowed her immense terror, clutching her purse, and spoke with absolute conviction.

"Because I'm going to be your wife."