Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
A woman under my command, bending to my every wish, begging me for release.
It was the only way I felt in control.
It's still the only way I feel in control.
I fucked a lot of women after I got out of rehab. Too many to count. It never meant anything to either of us. We got in, got off, got out.
Then I went to New York and I saw Jasmine again and—
I couldn't. My body refused. It only wanted her.
It only wants her.
My head knows better.
My heart—
There's nothing left. Only this empty space in my chest.
No doubt she's thinking the same thing right now. Sitting in the back seat of my limo, asking herself if there's any point in appealing to my mercy.
Under different circumstances, I'd pay for her father's treatment. I'd make sure someone was taking care of her.
Right now, I don't have the luxury.
I have to convince her. Whatever it takes.
Worse, I have to stay sober while I do it.
Nothing to dull my thoughts. Or my aches. Or that voice in my head reminding me exactly how powerless I was.
It's no use dreaming of bourbon.
Jasmine made her stance clear six years ago. When she gave me that ultimatum, I thought she was bluffing.
I did what I always did in negotiations. I called her on it.
But she wasn't bluffing. She walked away.
I respect her for making good on her promise. But I don't forgive her.
Jasmine: This is really overkill.
She's on her way. Almost here. Almost in this space that's mine and mine alone. The only place that makes sense.
Work is easy. A set of rules to manipulate. Victory conditions to obtain.
No subjectivity. No interpretation. No quests for truth.
Mom always went on about art and truth. For a long time, I thought it mattered. Now—
There's only one thing that matters.
Jasmine Lee as my wife.
My phone buzzes with my driver's alert. She's downstairs.
In the lobby.
At the security desk.
The elevator.
My gaze shifts to the decanter on the glass table. A dark amber. Almost as dark as her eyes.
Only it's not a whiskey that will warm my throat.
It's iced tea.
Lock's idea. His full name is Aalock Oza, but I call him Lock, what with his role as the keeper of my sobriety.
He thinks it's adorable. Chuckles every time. Says something about how he always wanted a name that suited his personality, not one that means light.
I would respect him for not taking shit if it didn't make my life so difficult.
There's whiskey in the cabinet. The locked cabinet. Everyone on my staff has a key. Everyone has a clause in their contract. They lose their jobs if they allow me to drink.
I can thank my brother for that. He's the one that blackmailed me into rehab last year.
Maybe I should. She's only here because I'm sober. I have to find a way to do this.
I pour a fucking iced tea. It's too warm. Too weak. Too astringent.
Mom always loved tea, but I never saw the appeal. Coffee is stronger, richer, more potent. I don't need a gentle meditation. I need a wake-up punch.
Something powerful enough to overwhelm me.
The oversteeped, room temperature Darjeeling—
It's doesn't sate me.
The elevator dings. My mouth gets dry. Then my throat. From the tea. Not her footsteps.
The click of her heels. A soft knock on the door.
"Come in." I set my glass on the table. Slide my hands into my pockets.
Jasmine steps inside. Presses the door closed behind her.
She's wearing the same heels and a tight red dress that hugs every inch of her soft body.
Her chest heaves with her inhale. The pendant between her breasts catches the light. A gift from me. For her sixteenth birthday.
She kept it all this time. She wants me to know she kept it all this time. That must mean something.
I stare into her dark eyes, trying to find the meaning. I can't. She's too stiff, too hurt, too unyielding.
This won't do. I need the upper hand.
It's not fair, but I don't have the luxury of sportsmanship at the moment.
"Would you like to take a seat?" I motion to the leather couch against the wall.
Her gaze shifts to the empty glass. The decanter of amber liquid. Me. She raises a brow. Really?
"You'd like some?"
She barely laughs. "Is that how we're starting?"
"Would you?"
"Sure."
I pour her a glass.
Her fingers brush mine as she takes it.
She brings the cup to her lips.
This time, her makeup stains the cup. Crimson on glass.
Her eyes close as she sips. They burst open. Fill with surprise. "Oh."
Again, I motion for her to sit.
This time, she does. "I shouldn't have assumed."
I sit next to her. Place my hand over hers. "I know what you think of me."
Her brow furrows. She drops the glass in my palm. Places her hands in her lap. "I'm not marrying an alcoholic."
"Understood."
"That's it? Understood."
I nod.
She stares into my eyes.