Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22950 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 115(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22950 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 115(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
Leaving my coffee steaming on the counter, I stride out of the small café and follow Ophelia, wondering where she’s headed. Every man that passes her does a double take and I warn them off with bared teeth and deadly glances. She’s mine. Don’t even think about it.
I’m getting ready to make my presence known by calling out to Ophelia, but she stops at a crosswalk and I get a look at her face. She’s pale as a ghost, her eyes huge and nervous in her beautiful face. What the fuck is going on?
I start to pick up my pace, intent on catching up with her, taking her in my arms and demanding to know who I have to kill for putting that expression on her face. But she crosses the avenue at a jog and after a deep breath, ascends the stairs of a white marble townhome. A split second before she rings the bell, I know this has something to do with what she’s been keeping from me.
Last night in her kitchen, she didn’t admit to there being another man. But I saw her hesitation. I saw it but convinced myself I’d imagined it. There’s no way she could give herself to me so completely if anyone else was in the picture. And I still don’t believe it.
Something is wrong. Something I’m not seeing.
Even before last night, when I showed up in her kitchen and she did everything under the sun to push me away—even though I could tell she wanted me—I knew there was something she wasn’t telling me. A secret.
This is it right here. I can feel it in my bones.
And whatever it is scares her. My Ophelia.
I watch in disbelief as an older man answers the door, takes hold of her elbow and pulls her inside, slamming the door closed behind him.
People on the sidewalk cower at my roar.
With murder raging in my blood, I cross the street at a dead run.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ophelia
I can’t do this.
The realization is such a relief, it makes me sag against the entry wall.
As soon as Wagner opened the door, the decision to leave was made. Whatever happens to my family as a result of me denying my father’s business partner? We’ll handle it. Or rather, our lawyers will handle it. But if I say yes to Wagner right now, who knows if it stops with one time? He’ll always have the means to blackmail me and my father. I have no way of stopping him from hitting send on that email to the New York Times in the future. All I’m doing is delaying the inevitable.
And then there’s Ezra.
Even if I never see him again, I’m not going to soil the memory of our time together by letting this nasty lecher touch me. My body belongs to Ezra, one hundred percent.
A sob rises up in my throat. I miss him so much.
“Come along, Ophelia. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
Gross. I’ve been eighteen for like, two seconds.
Bugs crawl on every inch of my skin.
Wagner is wearing a silk dressing gown and house slippers. He smells like Tums.
I wouldn’t have made it five seconds without gagging anyway. I’m out of here.
“I’m not letting you touch me,” I breathe, spinning toward the door—
He grabs my arm, his fingers digging painfully into my bicep. “You will hold up your end of this bargain, sweet cheeks, or your father’s face will be all over the evening news.” His hot breath wafts into my face and he starts dragging me forcefully into the living room. “This works out perfect for me in so many ways. I get to stick it in the little brat everyone at the office pants after. And your father will be forced to resign his position, leaving the firm to me.”
“Let me go!” I screech, digging my heels into the carpet.
Wagner grabs a section of my hair, using it to pull me toward the back of his townhouse. I scream and stumble—and that’s when the front door of the house is kicked open.
Ezra stands in the frame, his huge body vibrating with rage, hands in balled fists at his sides. He takes in the scene with one vicious glance—me struggling to get free, Wagner ripping at my hair—and his growl sounds like something out of the deepest, darkest jungle in Africa. It’s so loud and menacing, Wagner lets go of my hair and scampers toward the nearest wall, recoiling against it. “Wh-who are you?” Wagner snivels. “Get out of my house!”
The door rocks on its hinges under the force of Ezra kicking it shut. He advances into the room, light from the chandelier traveling over his murderous expression. “I knew you were keeping something from me, Ophelia,” he rasps, walking slowly toward Wagner. “Never again. Do you understand me? Your problems are my problems.”