Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“Come on. Let’s go.”
He leads me to his study, which is dimly lit but warm. It has mahogany shelves and leather chairs that look comfy. It smells like whiskey and Lorenzo.
I hate that I like the smell.
He shuts the doors with a soft click, and the sound seals me inside with him.
“That went well,” he drawls, drifting toward his desk all while my hands shake.
“Define well.” I cross my arms so he can’t see my pulse jumping in my throat.
He glances at me over his shoulder, a lazy smile on his face. “You didn’t try to run. I consider that growth.”
“I’m not running,” I grind out. “I’m enduring.”
His laugh is dark, low, delighted. “You always were stubborn.”
“You always were unbearable.”
“How sweet,” he coos, turning fully now. “You’re being nostalgic.”
I clench my fists. “What do you want?”
He picks up a velvet box from his desk and approaches slowly. “A gift.”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“You’re getting it anyway.” He flips open the lid. A necklace sits nestled in black velvet. Diamonds.
Intricate and dazzling.
But I know what this is . . . while it might look like jewelry, it’s nothing more than a shackle.
“A wedding gift.” He lifts it delicately between his fingers.
“A nice gift would be an annulment,” I fire back.
“That would be a gift for you,” he counters. “This is for me.”
I take a step back. “I said no.”
He takes a step forward. “I didn’t ask.”
His hand goes to the back of my neck, and he draws me close, the clasp clicking into place like a lock.
The metal is cold against my skin, and a shiver runs down my back.
It’s from the necklace…
Oh, who am I kidding? It’s from him.
His breath drags along my shoulder blade as he leans in. “Now,” he whispers, thumb brushing the frantic beat in my throat, “you’ll remember what you are. Mine.”
My whole body goes rigid.
I shove his hand away and lift my chin in defiance. “You don’t own me.”
His smile sharpens. “I bought your silence. Your family’s stability. Your future.” He tilts his head, eyes cutting. “Call it whatever you must.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re glowing in diamonds. My diamonds.” His low timbre makes my knees wobble. “I’d say the arrangement is working.”
“I hate you.”
He shrugs, the movement casual, almost bored. “Hatred looks good on you.”
I want to rip the necklace off and throw it in his face.
Instead, I walk out without another word, because if I open my mouth again, I’ll either scream or cry, and I refuse to give him either as a gift.
I can feel his gaze between my shoulder blades as I go, like a blade sliding down my spine.
The necklace digs into my skin like a chain.
Once I’m back in the hallway, I yank it off with both hands, the clasp snapping open with a tiny, violent pop.
I stare at the diamonds in my palm.
I should smash it.
Throw it out the window.
Drop it down a drain.
Instead . . .
I head to my room, and when inside, I open the nightstand drawer, dropping it inside. Then slam the drawer shut so hard the wood rattles.
What the hell am I going to do?
I sit on the edge of the bed, shaking, angry, and most of all, humiliated. I’m sick of the fact that my heart is doing something it has no right to do.
He married me to ruin me.
And somewhere deep inside my ribs . . . in the place I swore was dead . . . my heart aches in a way I hate.
Not because I miss him.
Because I miss the version of him I loved so much, it almost killed me.
I bury my face in my hands, breath cracking against my palms.
The marriage may be a cage.
But the worst part?
Some broken part of me still remembers how it felt to love him.
And that part hurts most of all.
38
Lorenzo
The report hits my desk.
When I look up, I see it’s Rafe who dropped the folder in front of me. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are darker than usual.
I’m not going to like whatever is inside.
“Start talking,” I spin my pen between my fingers while I stare at the closed file.
Rafe drags a hand over his face and leans on the edge of the desk. “You remember how you asked me to find out who our little accounting genius was working for?”
“I remember asking for a head in a bag,” I correct, letting my mouth twitch. “But sure, let’s go with what you’re saying instead.”
He exhales through his nose. “We’ve been hearing rumblings. A new outfit is moving through the East Coast. Young guys. They’re trying to make a name for themselves.”
“Great,” I snort. “Adorable. Do they have a mission statement?”
“There’s chatter they’re tied to a Boston family, and that there is someone who knows our inside workings,” Rafe continues, ignoring me. “Nothing fully confirmed yet, but all of what I’m hearing makes sense.”