I’m not an awestruck girl who got dazzled by dark eyes and a few filthy words spoken at the right time. I know what men like him are capable of when they want something badly enough.
I was raised in that world. Trained in it. Built by it.
Despite all that, this fucking hurts.
Somewhere between Bucharest and New York, between the fights and the laughter and those moments when he kissed me, I tripped headfirst into his trap.
My ears are ringing now, my pulse loud and aggressive, drowning out everything except that one sentence repeating in a loop.
I move back and rush to the penthouse bedroom that had felt like home.
Memories flash through my mind in ugly, humiliating fragments.
Nothing here is mine. Not even the artwork I’d bought with his credit card or the robe hanging on the back of the door.
And this marriage was a fucking lie.
I pull off my damp clothes and redress in a pair of jeans and a sweater.
My phone is on the bedside table, and my purse is hanging off the chair. I grab both without thinking, swearing under my breath when the strap catches and slips from my shoulder.
Fuck him.
Fuck the Viacavas.
I head straight to the safe in the closet, punch in the numbers, pull out a wad of paper notes, and swap them for the credit card in my purse.
The conversation in the office continues, but I don’t stop to listen. I’ve heard enough and those men can go fuck themselves.
By the time I’m at the front door, my chest is tight with the effort of holding myselftogether. I pray none of them walk out and find me full of so much humiliation I could choke on it.
The worst part isn’t knowing Bronx made me look like a fool.
It’s that I made it so damn easy for him.
I gave him permission to charm me. I let him make me smile. Let him melt my defences. Let him make me feel like a wife when all along belonging to him was as far from his mind as loving me.
My hand closes around the door handle.
Then his voice carries down the hall, and I stop breathing for a second, every muscle in my back locking.
“I’ll get it from her,” he says. “Don’t worry about that.”
“You’ve had long enough to sort this out, Bronx,” Kingston bites back. “It’s not like you’re in love with the woman.”
My vision goes black at the edges. I grit my teeth and swallow down the lump forming in my throat. The only thing my brain is telling me to do right now is get the fuck out from under their control.
I don’t slam the door on my way out or even make a sound.
If they don’t know I was listening, then I have time to run.
But even when I escape the penthouse behind, I still have to wait for the elevator and deal with the security.
“Going somewhere, Mrs Viacava?”
“I left my phone in the gym,” I say, voice steady even though I could cry. “I’ll be back up in a few minutes.”
I stand there with my pulse hammering in my throat, trying not to look over my shoulder.
