His smirk deepens. "I have better things to do than sit around and read the diary of an ungrateful little thing like you."
"Then how do you know?" My voice rises, venomous. "The apples.No oneknows. Not a single person. You had to have read it."
He leans in, the air between us crackling. "Reading your diary would require me being interested in what goes on in your head."
I want to slap him. I want to scream. Instead, I force myself to stay still, to stare him down even as the heat of his body reaches mine.
For a moment, we stand staring, unbreakable in our eye contact as we wait to see who crumbles first.
He gestures toward the room. "Shower and change. Dinner is in an hour."
I don’t move, I only cock an eyebrow. "And if I don’t?"
He steps closer, tilting my chin up with a firm grip. His touch burns my skin.
"Then there will be consequences."
The words settle over me like chains. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. I already know what men like him are capable of.
“I don’t have any of my things here.”
“I’ve provided everything you’ll need, Martine.”
I give him the dirtiest look I can muster, shocking myself that I am capable of such venom. I’ve never comfortably shown such outbursts to anyoneever.
He stares at me long enough to make my skin itch, and my chest flush.
"I didn’t expect such a well-brought-up woman to behave like such a fucking brat."
"Your mistake was thinking you brought home possession and not a woman," I snap.
The smirk returns, but this time, something darker lingers beneath it.
“One hour.”
With a final glance, he turns and shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone.
Alone. Fury simmers beneath my skin. Did he really buy me? Did my father actually sell me off like a prized possession, a fucking commodity to be traded between men who see nothingbut an object to own, to conquer? Or is this worse? Was there never a deal at all? Just Hayden deciding, in that sick, entitled way of his, that I belonged to him? Was I something to be taken, claimed, owned?
I can’t continue to wonder about the truth of it, because the truth may be too difficult to swallow.
I exhale, stepping deeper into the room to explore. The bed is large, the sheets pristine. The wardrobe is open, revealing a curated collection of clothing all in my size. Everything has been prepared, but still I yearn for my suite at Eulogia.
It doesn’t smell like my preferred room diffuser of citrus and honey.
My books aren’t here, and I’m certain the detergent on the sheets used isn’t to my liking. And worst of all, my beloved cardigan sets and loafers, which I’ve spent years sourcing with my stylist, are most definitely not here.
All of my perfectly curated comforts, carefully selected by a handpicked team of staff, have been stripped away. I feel naked, and I’ve yet to undress.
I move stiffly towards the bathroom and turn on the shower. I start peeling off my ruined clothes with a begrudging reluctance and curse under my breath as I step into the water. The hot spray hisses against my skin, washing away the mud, the grime, everything except the lingering touch of Hayden's hands.
As I reach for the shampoo, I imagine clawing my fingers through his disgustingly perfect hair, except instead of washing, I’d pull, hard enough to make him hiss.
The shower products are the brand I like, but the washcloth just isn't right.
The soap stings as I scrub at my skin, as if I can erase the feeling of his touch, the sheer audacity of him thinking he can own me. Every motion feels like surrender, like stepping deeper into whatever twisted game Hayden is playing.
When I emerge, my skin is scrubbed raw, my towel wrapped tight around me, the cuts in my palms barely deepened. As I drag the towel over my arms, I think about actually scratching his eyes out, feel the phantom satisfaction of nails sinking into arrogant flesh. But the moment shatters when I face the open wardrobe, filled with clothes that fit too perfectly. A reminder that, no matter how much I want to fight, he's already thought ahead.
