Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
“Theadora, where are you?”
“You probably killed her too. Didn’t you?” I ask him, walking out the same way I came in, being ultra-careful not to touch anything.
“No, Theadora. Now tell me where you are.”
“You are the worst possible thing to walk into my life, and I cannot wait until the day you walk out,” I say, wiping the tears away from my face, turning and leaving.
I run, run all the way home, and when I get there, the first thing I do is lock my door and hide in my room.
I don’t open it even when he knocks an hour later.
Then again when he comes back later that night.
I don’t open it at all.
Sometimes you just have to be free from the clutches of someone who doesn’t deserve you.
Atlas Hyde. I googled him, and what came up was a lot. There were pages and pages full of information about him. I was surprised, but every picture of him was perfect. Almost too perfect. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a hand in picking what photographs were used as well. He likes to control everything.
Managing to get myself up the next day and ready for work, I open the door with no expectations. I see him standing there, so I shut the door in his face and stand holding the doorknob, unsure of what I should be doing.
“Theadora.” I’ve built up an aversion to the way he keeps saying my name. Always it in fucking full, and honestly, I want to scream at him to stop it. “Theadora, you forgot to lock it.” The door is pushed in, and I’m helpless to stop it as he comes face-to-face with me. My hands drop to my sides, my shoulders slump, and I stare at him, wondering why he’s here.
“You keep showing up. Why do you keep showing up?” I ask while shaking my head. “Stop it, Atlas, just stop it. Tell me what you need me to do, and that’s it. I didn’t agree to any of this. This is not me paying my sister’s debt back,” I say, waving my hand between us. “I didn’t agree to your games. Is this what you do for all your girls, or am I just special?” I ask the question with more venom.
“You have a function at your work next weekend, I plan to be your date.” My mouth opens and then closes at his words. That makes no sense. How on earth would he know about that?
He’s ignoring all my questions.
Atlas is good at that.
“No. No, you can’t be my date. I don’t take dates.” I step back so there is distance between us. I don’t want to be next to him, smelling him, or being anywhere near him. Yesterday, watching him run was bad enough, in his gray tracksuit pants that outline more than they should.
Lord, help me.
It almost made me forget what an awful man he truly is.
Almost.
Then yesterday made me realize how much I despise him.
“Correction… you didn’t. And now you do.” He turns and walks back to his car. “Who was it… that you found?” he asks, which makes me believe he doesn’t know who it is.
“Mandy,” I reply.
He turns around, his hand on the door. “I didn’t expect that. I’ll clean it up.” He gets in and leaves.
I hate him. Really, really, hate him.
Clean it up. What the fuck does that even mean?
But then again, my fingerprints would be on the door and all over my sister’s room, so I guess cleaning it up is a good thing. Right?
Driving to work is quick, and when I arrive, Chloe’s already there. She is never there this early, and I’m always the first person here so I know. I’m not sure I can deal with her today. I don’t know if I can deal with much today, to be honest. My weekend, well, it was one for the books, that’s for fucking sure.
You know that book you burn and hope to never see again.
Yeah, that book.
Walking in, I see her at my desk, the computer’s turned on, and she’s working.
“Chloe.” She looks up at me, stunned, shuts the laptop quickly, and stands.
“You come in this early?” she asks.
I look at my desk and see numbers written everywhere. “What are you doing?”
Chloe looks where I am and grabs the papers. “Working out figures. Making sure everything matches.”
“Of course it does. Why wouldn’t it?” I ask her, confused. “I send them to you every month.”
“Because the turnover was down this month,” she says, quickly while putting all the paperwork into her bag, then coming to stand near me. “We have the influencer gala next week. I expect figures to be up again by then.” She walks past me and doesn’t say goodbye as she leaves.
Walking over to my desk, I open the computer and see she has transferred large amounts of money out of the accounts to somewhere else. She’s left enough in there to pay salaries but no extra to buy stock, which we will need.