Ben has never left a conversation without the last word.
I got under his skin like he’s been getting under mine.
For a minute, I feel bad. My empathy hitting me fast with how cruel that was to say.
But it’s true.
I don’t want to be pregnant with a man who’s using me for his own personal vendetta.
For his empire.
I won’t get a love story. There won’t be that special someone whowantsthis with me because he wants to be.
It’ll just be me fighting against a man who isn’t human.
11
Benedikt
Breakfast looks like a goddamn spread for royalty.
Silver platters, glass bowls, crystal pitchers. Eggs, bacon, pastries, fruit carved into shapes nobody asked for.
Half of it will go untouched.
My staff is good at excess—it’s what they think I want—and maybe I do. Maybe I like sitting at the head of a table that screams power before I open my mouth.
But this morning, it’s not working.
Sienna comes down the stairs, quick and with her head down like it’d be a damn cloaking device.
Blue jeans.
Oversized pink sweatshirt.
Hair pulled back in one of those messy knots that look like it took two seconds to do, but she still looks perfect.
Irritatingly perfect.
She’s not nervous. Not twitching or hiding. She just doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to be around me.
And that’s too fucking bad.
Her eyes flick over the table, then me, and she sets her jaw. “I’ll be late.”
I didn’t say anything yet.
But I like that she already knows what I’m going to say just by the limited time we’ve been around each other.
“You need to eat,” I press lightly, bringing my coffee to my lips, then I point to the chair next to mine. “Sit.”
“I can’t. I’ll be late.”
I allow my gaze to drag down her frame, but it’s only to torture myself. That R word that she threw at me last night pissed me off. “Then take something with you.”
I hear her huff, then she plucks a piece of dry toast from one of many plates.
It takes everything in me to tell her to take more. That a piece ofbreadisn’t sufficient or nourishing enough for a full day at work, but I refrain.
