Beckett
Two months have passed since Scarlett's accident. Our baby is a happy, peaceful little child, and for that, I am both amazed and grateful. She doesn't sleep through the night, but that's what her night nurse is for.
I spend most of my time avoiding Scarlett and immersing myself in work. Every time I see her, she is a distraction. In those first few weeks living with me, I wanted to give her space to recover. However, soon our home becomes an endless parade of dancers and friends coming to see her when she should be resting. She is my wife, this is my home, and they are interrupting the life of my infant daughter and Scarlett's recovery.
Scarlett is entertaining two of her friends. One is an extremely handsome male, and the other is a female my age, whom I probably would consider beautiful had Scarlett not stolen the entirety of my attention and desire. They are in her room bearing flowers, chocolates, and gifts. I assume they are dancers from the New York City Ballet, but I don't care. I want them—and anyone who takes Scarlett’s attention—out of my house.
In the two months I have lived with my tiny dancer, I have become obsessed with her. I believe my obsession springs from her absolute and total disinterest in me. I am not in the habit of having women ignore my desires. Conversely, women usually throw themselves at me, embarrassing themselves and laughing about how wanton and craven they are for my attention. Scarlett, on the other hand, barely tolerates me. This will change. She is my wife, and while it is a fake marriage and I have no intentions of making it a real one, we will eventually have marital relations, so she needs to at least give me the fucking time of day.
I walk in and say, “It’s time for Scarlett to get some rest,” not eventrying to be polite.
“They’ve only been here an hour,” Scarlett protests, looking much better. In fact, I would say she is nearly normal again, though honestly, I don’t know exactly what her baseline is.
“Thank you for coming, but my wife needs to sleep,” I say again.
Scarlett's friends leave in a hurry, offering their goodbyes and apologies, and I couldn't be happier to see them go.
“Why did you kick my friends out?” She scowls and braces her hands on her hips. “I feel fine.”
“Your doctor said it could take months to heal properly. You do want to dance again, don't you?” I question.
“Beckett, I have lived alone for most of my life. I don't need a daddy.” She glares at me, and it is cute; she is so gorgeous.
“I'm not your daddy. I'm your husband, and we need to talk.” I wish I could take a picture of the look of shock on her face.
“About?”
“I am a very private man. I'm also influential and elusive. I can't have your friends just hanging around my house. You need to ask me if you can invite them over.”
“You won't let me leave the house. You won't let me go downstairs. You won't let me walk down the hall. So when am I going to see my friends? I have no problem going to a café or meeting them somewhere. I'll bring Rayne with me. God knows she needs to get out as badly as I do. You can't keep us prisoner in your little mansion on the top of a high-end high-rise. We aren't your captives. We’re family, no matter how fake we might be. There was a reason why you married me. There was a reason why you made a family, and you can't just keep us in a shadow box and go on with your own life while we’re neatly tucked away behind glass.”
She wavers a little standing on her feet, feisty as fuck, but she still hasn’t fully recovered, and it shows.
“As a doctor and as your husband, I can tell you to do what I think is best for you.” My actions are possessive and controlling, but Iampossessive and controlling, and she’ll soon learn that.
“Being cooped up in my room isn’t best. You have money, Beckett; that’s what you have. You might be a brilliant doctor, but you’re a crap person. Money doesn't make you good; it just makes you rich. The most valuable things in this world are the relationships we have with people. From what I can see, you have very few of those, so in my eyes, you're poor as shit.”
That line of thinking pisses me off more than anything Scarlett has ever said. She is feisty and fiery, and I want to fuck her so badly I would bend her over the bed and shove my cock straight up her ass just to shut her up and teach her a lesson. But the reason she pisses me off so much is that the little vixen is right. That doesn't stop me, however, from grabbing her and pulling her to me so her face is near mine.
“You know nothing about me, little girl,” I breathe inches from her face, my cock stony and angry between us.
“I’m not your little girl. I’m your wife. Show me some respect. Your little girl is asleep in the nursery. I'm a woman, and you know that I'm right.”
“Fuck you,” I say, pressing her up against the wall and claiming her lips.
I crane her neck back and devour her mouth. I want her so badly I can hardly breathe.
“You only wish you could,” she whispers, pulling away from me and storming out of the room, leaving me with a hard cock melting pre-cum and the desire to possess her at all costs.
It is true. I haven't let her leave her room. She has an en-suite bathroom, and her meals are brought to her, though I do allow her to sit at the tiny table near the window to consume them. She hasn't even seen the entirety of the house because I haven’t allowed her downstairs. We have an elevator, so she's seen the kitchen and dining room the one night I had a formal meal with her. It was the most awkward affair. We had such a hard time finding anything to discuss other than our child and the terms of our marriage.
I have a lawyer draw up a contract she signs without question. The conditions of our marriage are a duration of five years, after whichpoint she will receive one million dollars a year as a stipend until her death or, God forbid, my financial ruin. I have already set up a trust for her that yields a million in yearly interest without having to touch the principal.
She wants to protest, but I tell her that the million dollars is to raise my child. I point out that in a court of law, I would be mandated to pay much more than a million in child support.
“I'm getting off easy, so don't fight me,” I warn her, and she just huffs.
“The contract also states that I’ll buy you a house of your choice at market value in an area I approve, with sufficient funds to maintain staff to perform the upkeep. Again, this is for my daughter. I also agree to pay for private education and college, and I’ll set up a trust fund that can be accessed when Rayne reaches twenty-one years of age. For this, I expect regular visitation, which will be mapped out more succinctly when we get divorced.”
