Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
I swallowed hard and wanted to drop to my knees in that very moment and weep. He was right. He was so right. I’d even told Shavonne that I was meeting someone. There were waitresses, staff, bartenders. Even the clerk in the hotel lobby saw us together and spoke briefly with Dominic before we left.
“Why would you do this to me?” I cried, voice hoarse. “Why? That man, Dominic. That man—you just stood there and let him do that to me!”
“Nothing happened that you hadn’t done before. Don’t take it personally, Brynn.”
“The drugs are still in my system,” I reminded him. “Whatever you put in that juice is probably still there. I can go now.”
“You’re not leaving until you sign.” It wasn’t a challenge. It was a threat. I saw it in his eyes.
Anger took hold of me with a vice grip. It was hot and throbbing and uncontrollable. I could’ve cried, could’ve wept, could’ve begged him not to make me sign those stupid papers just to get my purse back, but I was livid. And I couldn’t just walk out of there without my purse. Say I did go to the cops and tell them everything, he could hide it, lie about it. My purse had my phone inside it, my wallet, my ID, my credit and debit cards—hell, even my car and apartment keys. And he was keeping my belongings hostage, just so he wouldn’t get in trouble for being an accessory to rape.
Why couldn’t he just let me leave? Why didn’t he have sympathy for me? Why did he drug me before I even had the chance to refuse? How many women had he done this to, just so he could walk away squeaky clean and like a saint?
My rage was hot and unfiltered, and it was with my rage that I rushed toward him to fight for my purse.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snapped, trying to push me off as I struggled for the bag. I slapped him with one hand, and it stung my palm, but I was glad because if it hurt me, it definitely hurt him.
That seemed to piss him off. His eyes locked on mine and were on fire. His lips were tight as he fumed. How dare I slap his delicate, handsome face? The asshole.
I gripped the strap of my bag, but he held on tighter. He managed to stand up, tower over me, but I kept fighting, kept hitting. I even landed a punch to his chest.
“Stop fucking hitting me, Brynn!”
“Fuck you!” I screamed, and he snatched me up, cupping a hand around my mouth.
“Just sign the fucking papers!” he growled, but I kept kicking and trying to scream because making a scene and getting the police here somehow was better than signing those damn papers. Perhaps someone would be walking by and could hear me? Sure the neighborhood was big, but it was also quiet. All I knew was signing that nondisclosure would’ve been like giving my soul to the devil, and I refused. This man, once a childhood love, had drugged me, let a man rape me, manipulated me, and I was not about to go down without a fight. I didn’t have much to live for, but I damn sure wasn’t letting him steal my dignity.
I bit the hand he had cupped around my mouth, and he hissed and cursed beneath his breath. “You stupid bitch!” he hollered, and he shoved me away with so much force, my forehead slammed into something sharp and hard.
I wish I could say I got back up and fought harder, but instead, everything went black again.
TWENTY-SEVEN
JOLENE
I jump in my seat when a door slams.
I’m sitting in the living room with a glass of wine in hand. Papers are on the table with all my proof to blast Dominic for what he’s done. I want to be calm, collected, but of course the slam of the door catches me by surprise, and I spring out of my seat.
I peer around the corner and spot Dominic in the foyer, furiously flipping through the mail. He tosses the envelopes on the table and shrugs out of his blazer. I stand and wait for him to notice me, and when he does, he frowns, then shakes his head and ventures to the kitchen.
Fine. We’ll have this discussion in the kitchen.
I collect the papers from the coffee table and walk down the hallway in my bedroom shoes. Dominic’s head is buried in the fridge as he asks, “Why didn’t you cook?”
“Because I didn’t know what time you’d be home. You never got back to my text from earlier.”
He retrieves a sparkling water and shuts the fridge. “Busy day.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
He cracks the drink open, eyes slightly narrowed at me. I place the papers on the table as he gulps down some of the bubbly water. “We need to talk, Dominic.”