“Good.” He sighs and rubs his hand on his chin. “I need you now, more than you know. If, in the future, you decide you still wish to leave, we can discuss going our separate ways. But for now, don’t even think about of it.”
Whatever happened to the days of I love you. You’re mine. I’ll never let you go. Instead, I’m treated like a plaything, and it doesn’t escape my attention that he has yet to tell me that he loves me. Or, for that matter, show me any affection at all the way he used to before leaving for an extended trip.
He clears his throat, and I look up just in time to see his eyes glance to the panties and then back to me. “And in the future, sweetheart, it’d do you well to refrain from asking questions you do not wish to know the answer to.”
My heart sinks at his insinuation, and I know the truth. I think I’ve always known, but now, in his arrogance, he’s told me all I need to know. The truth is that I am one of many and there’s no way I can stay.
“You don’t own me,” I whisper as soon as he’s out of the room.
A chuckle resounds from the hall. “Don’t I?” he challenges.
Those two words nearly cause me to break down, but I refuse to cry. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s broken me. Instead, I close my eyes and take deep breaths, hoping he doesn’t return. I’m too numb to respond. Too numb to move. I sit stock-still, his semen drying on my stomach a reminder of his cruelty and his uncanny ability to make me still want him.
I listen as he finishes packing and then leaves through the front door without even bothering to say goodbye. I don’t mind. I don’t want to see him again. At least, not yet. Maybe not ever.
The longer I sit there, the more I know I can no longer do this. I may have no one. I may have nothing. But as long as I regain my sense of self, that’s all I need. And I have less than a month to do it. Hot tears trickle down my cheeks as a plethora of mixed emotions rolls through me. Sadness. Anger. Confusion. Defeat.
I shake my head at the last thought. No, not defeat. I refuse to succumb to it. To him. He may have won this battle, but there’s a war on the horizon, and I will win—no matter what. With renewed resolve, I’m determined to rise from the ashes and become the woman I once was. The woman I was raised to be—not this weak shell that’s taken over my very existence.
When I glance down, his release is drying on my stomach, and I feel dirty. Used. After ripping my shirt off, I furiously rub at his disgusting mark of ownership. The creamy white substance disappearing into the cloth is rejuvenating, a symbol of what I have to do. Just as I’ve erased the remnants, I need to erase the man, and I can’t start soon enough. I’m about to jump off the counter and draw up my battle plan, but the sound of the back screen door sliding open echoes throughout the kitchen. My breath catches, and I freeze, my eyes widening with panic as an enormous shadow fills the doorway.
Although Adrian may be gone, I am no longer alone.
AS I STROLL TOWARDS the back door, I hear voices and quickly step off to the side. I position myself just beyond the window, I’m thankful it’s open so I can eavesdrop. Crouched down and barely off to the side, I’m able to hear their conversation through the screen. Neither of them is aware of my presence. Lurking in the shadows, just out of sight yet still within earshot, I watch with both confusion and morbid curiosity as Morningstar lays claim on his woman with just his words. Everything I’ve seen in the past led me to believe they were blissfully happy, but this is not a happy woman in love. And this is not a man whose sun rises and sets on the woman before him.
At first, she’s willfully defiant, and I’d be lying if I said that it doesn’t make my cock hard to watch her, all five foot nothing of her, stand up to a man of Morningstar’s caliber. Whenever I have a new client, I do my best to learn whatever I can about them and their significant others. It makes it easier to know who I’m dealing with and how to do so in the most efficient way. The job depends on it. So when Morningstar told me that I’d be working with Gabrielle Latham, she became the object of my research.
Everything I’ve been able to dig up on her gave me the impression she is the usual: a poor, young, timid girl with no family who swooned at the first rich asshole who promised her the world and then turned a blind eye to all of his indiscretions. Over the past two years or so, she quickly went from a young, single female with a receptionist job to the arm candy and housemate of one of the nation’s most promising up-and-coming businessmen, one whose net worth was already in the multimillions thanks to his dear old dad and his shady business practices.
So when my eyes observe the way Gabriella Latham—with her long, dark hair, wide, brown eyes, and tight, little body—sets her chin defiantly and tells Morningstar that she is most certainly leaving him. I’m shocked as hell and, to be honest, a bit disappointed because she’s to be my contact for the next several months. I identified her as the perfect mark to suit my needs while I was on the job. I had plans for her. Not to mention this particular woman presents a wrong I have to right. Selfishly, I don’t want her to go, but even from my spot at the window, the determination on her face is evident.
At first.
Then, before I know what’s happening, he’s pushing her onto her back on the counter, pushing her skirt up, and fucking her hard into the granite stone. Curiosity turns to disgust, yet I still can’t look away. I know what he was doing. I’ve seen it before time and time again. Morningstar’s not ready to let his little pet go. He’s reminding her who she belongs to, reminding her that she will only leave when he allows it.