Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“No,” I reply.
“We are at a steak house,” he points out as he swallows and lifts his glass of wine to his lips.
“That was your choice,” I remind him.
“And you were late,” he adds, with a hint of anger radiating from him.
Definitely the grudge-holding type.
“So?” I shrug.
“I warned you not to be late.”
“And I couldn’t care less what you warned,” I fire back.
He sucks a hiss through his teeth before he goes back to cutting his steak. “Who told you it was okay to have this much attitude?” he asks, and a rattled laugh escapes me.
“Is this a joke?” I reply, leaning in.
“You have forgotten where you came from and what women mean to men.”
“And what precisely do they mean?” I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest.
“That they obey and do what men say.”
I blow out a frustrated breath. Then I laugh, shaking my head, disbelieving in how that world followed me all the way to New York.
No, he has followed me all the way here.
“Is this why I’m here, for you to tell me how I should act?” I ask, leaning in again and tilting my head.
“Are you not afraid of me?” he questions, leaning in until only a breath separates us.
“No.”
“You should be.” He smirks.
CHAPTER 5
Crue
This woman.
Who the fuck is she?
Rya is nothing like the stories I’ve been told. She is feisty, independent, and everything I shouldn’t want.
Everything I don’t want.
I’m supposed to marry a woman who will blend in, who will have no qualms staying in the background and doing as she’s told.
So why do I feel Rya wouldn’t be any of those things?
She sits across from me in her little black dress, legs long and tanned, and her hair, which reminds me of caramel, is half up and half down.
I fucking hate caramel.
Those eyes, though.
The fuck-me eyes that look at you with so much fucking sex, it oozes from her.
It’s a strange contrast.
The silver of her eyes to the caramel of her hair.
You would think they wouldn’t match.
But they do.
Fuck, they match perfectly.
“Is this all I’m here for?” She waves her hand at the food, leaning back and drawing away the temptation. Barely. “Because I need to eat, and this…” she looks down at her plate “… I will not eat.”
“What do you want to eat?” I ask. “Fucking salad?”
“Anything that doesn’t have meat. Or that comes from an animal.”
I lift my hand, and the waitress quickly returns to the table.
“Tell her what you want.”
She checks around at other tables and spots a plate of seasoned vegetables.
“Can I please have one of those?”
The waitress nods and quickly scurries away.
“Really?” I ask, raising a brow.
“Do you have an issue with my choice of food?” Rya asks.
Palpable silence fills the space. She’s not in any way unnerved by me, and I find that as much irritating as I do fascinating.
“Why am I here, Crue?” she asks, unimpressed. How my name rolls off her tongue draws my gaze to her lips again. Those filthy, fuckable lips. I grab my glass of whisky and down the contents. She should not be this fucking tempting. But defiant girls do have to be shown a lesson and broken in—it’s how it has always been.
“I plan to marry you,” I state.
She pales, and her crossed arms drop. “No,” she replies.
“No?”
“That’s what I said. I am guessing you don’t hear that word too often?” she says, some color coming back to her face.
“Do you think your father would agree with you saying no to me?”
“He doesn’t have a say. I left. Therefore, he has no say.”
“Just because you left does not mean he doesn’t have control of you.”
“That’s precisely what it means.”
“You know it was him who paid for your education?”
“Of course I do.”
“And you know he’s had you watched for all these years, right?”
“Watched?” She shakes her head. “No, he hasn’t.”
“Of course he has.” I grin. “Monica’s the perfect friend, right?” I say, dropping the bomb right on her.
Rya laughs at that, but I know she’s a clever girl.
“That’s not true. Monica would epically suck at being a spy.”
“She’s not a spy, but she is paid highly to hang out with you. Be your friend.” I study her as she takes in my words, and for some reason, I know she’s trying to work it all out in her mind. She begins to tap her pointed nail on the table contemplatively. Rya is smart, top of her class in law school, one of the highest-paid lawyers in her firm, and about to get her dirty-ass dead boss’s job.
That’s how good she is.
She wins—it’s what she’s good at.
A simple equation like this will make her realize that she hasn’t run far enough away to escape Daddy’s influence.
The waitress returns and places a plate of vegetables in front of her, but she makes no move to eat. Instead, she is looking at me.