The line’s from the song,Idiot Prayer. I got a mixtape once from a fan. I struggle to breathe in. Or from my stalker. The writing’s similar to the cards and mail I’ve gotten. My lungs seize and I shove it back into the bag.
Am I still in danger? Or is someone playing a sick joke on me?
I take a few deep breaths and look around.
There’s a massive desk in the center of the room. The kind that curves down to the floor at the front so no one sees what’s going on behind it. Everything on top is decorative, staged rather than used. Beautiful books line the far wallbookshelf. There’s a plush old chair behind the desk, and another one off to the side.
It’s one ofthoserooms.
Like the ones at home, my real home, designed to look inviting, but never actually used. Rooms for show. For power. For pretending.
I close my eyes. Declan’s right. I’m a spoiled rich kid from Manhattan.
But even that realization can’t scrape away the thing pulsing under my skin.
I want him.
Not just his hands, his mouth, his cock. Him.
It’s never beenjustlust with him. Not from the first time I saw him. My world tilted and hasn’t steadied since. Declan Murphy makes me vulnerable just by walking into a room. He blows my life apart by existing.
He’s a man I could love as much as I hate.
And he keeps cutting me open. Over and over. How he messed with my head. How he ghosted and taunted and flirted and then kissed someone else right under my nose. How he made me pant and beg and get on my knees in a bathroom, let him finger me in a room full of people.
How he’s playing this bullshit role now. Just doing his job. Pretending.
Openly. Honestly.Pretendingto be my husband.
If I didn’t desperately want my father back. I swallow… If I didn’t want to know what happened to Daddy, I’d walk. And when this is over, I will. I don’t want a future curated by my mother. I don’t want to marry someone who doesn’t want me but wants my money and a slice of the family pie. And Declan will sell me out by walking away once the contract ends. So I’ll be the one who walks first. Who cares if I’m cut off and have to work? I’ve got a brain. I can dance. I’ll strip if I have to.
I twist with a gasp, feeling his eyes on me.
Declan’s soft, full lips curl up in a half smile, his eyes darkly curious. “No one I know of died in here, in case you were worried. Also, what the fuck are you thinking about?”
“A career in stripping,” I snap.
He comes in close, pressing against me, hand sliding up my thigh to stroke my pussy and clit. “You are wet, Molly girl. And stripping’s fine by me. As long as I get to watch and get all the lap dances.”
“You’re vile.”
He feathers a kiss over my lips, the softest kiss that makes me weightless as he slips a finger into me. “You’re the one who came up with the idea. I’m just being supportive.”
“No, you’re not.” He pulls his finger from me and takes my hand. I pull it away. “You’re being annoying.”
“So are you.”
I exhale hard. “I’m safe now, right?” I want him to say yes. I need to tell him about the note. And yet, the words won’t come.
“Depends on your definition.” He takes my hand again. “Come with me, Molly. Let’s be like Lola and live on the wild side.”
“My cat?”
“I’m trying to be funny. I’ll bring flashcards so you can keep up.” When he moves, I go with him because of course I would.
He sits, adjusts his suit, and then the hiss of a zipper cuts through the silence. My mouth instantly dries as he pulls his cock out and wraps his hand around it, stroking slowly.
“Declan…” I whisper, heart jack hammering. The door is cracked, the hall beyond dim but not deserted. “My mother’shere.”
