Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 87967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“So I have been told,” Daimon said severely. Ouch!
The manager darted his eyes at me. I let out a sigh and smiled. I guess I’ll be spending most of my time apologizing for Daimon’s behavior.
“If you would follow me please, I have your room ready for you.” We followed. Daimon was tight lipped and avoided looking at me. I could see the manager seemed somewhat aware of the atmosphere. How could he not?
“So which room are we going to?” I asked the manager, knowing full well that the St. Regis had designer rooms, which I had read in the newspaper.
“We have the Tiffany booked,” the manager smiled at me.
“I wanted the Presidential!” Daimon barked.
“Yes, I know, but like we told Ms. Somer, it was an impossibility since it had already been booked,” he said calmly. He knew how to deal with the rich and spoiled. “We have thrown in quite a few complimentary items to compensate,” he noted.
“Thank you,” I said, counting down the steps it took for me to get into that room and out of my dress. Hold the phone. What will I be wearing if I’m not wearing my dress?
We stood in front of two large wooden handcrafted doors that the manager opened. I stood in a foyer that was decorated with golden flakes and Tiffany’s signature pale blue. Peonies in various vases were placed on a table that was against the wall underneath a large mirror. Daimon had just walked in like he owned it and had always lived here.
“If you need anything, we have assigned a butler to your room. Simply call the number and he will be glad to be of service.” The manger nodded and closed the door, leaving both Daimon and I utterly alone.
I watched as Daimon walked over to the bar and opened up a bottle of scotch. He poured until it nearly hit the rim of the glass. Without a moment’s hesitation, he gulped it down.
“Daimon,” I said quietly as I walked over to him.
The quiet room was filled with the sound of my dress rustling. He poured himself another, but I put my hand on top of his, trying to stop him. He turned and faced me, his eyes cold and distant.
“What, Addie? It’s not like we’re going to fuck. So why don’t you just go and leave me the fuck alone,” he said venomously.
I watched as the Daimon I knew, who was always in control, unravel before me. He flicked his hand so I could remove mine and poured again, filling it up to the top.
“Daimon, this isn’t you,” I stated.
He took one long swig of his drink and placed the glass down with such force he broke it.
“Me? You don’t even know me. All you wanted was money for your family,” he accused me, his hand shaking.
“You needed me too!” I fired back, hating the way he made me sound.
He stepped closer and towered over me.
“I know the type of person you are, Addie. You act all innocent and broken, but you use any excuse to be pitiful.” He leaned in that much closer. “It’s disgusting,” he said in a spitefully low voice.
“Who was that woman, Daimon?” I asked, knowing full well he was using me to vent out his anger. I knew because that was what made us us. We used each other as punching bags, unleashing our anger toward one another.
“Fuck off, Addie!” he stepped away from me, but I followed.
“Tell me!” I ordered.
Daimon stopped in mid-stride and turned to face me.
“The last time I checked, I was the one who paid for your sorry ass, so I am the one who orders you around. You don’t get to control me,” he said harshly. The smell of the scotch was strong on his breath and he spouted his ruthless words.
“Daimon, I just want to help,” I said quietly.
“You want to help?”
“Yes,” I admitted. It hurt to watch him like this.
“Then fuck me,” he said callously.
“What?” I breathed.
“You said you wanted to help me, so help me by fucking me, Addie,” he repeated in his cold tone.
“You are out of your fucking mind!” I growled as I walked away from him.
“Out of my mind? You’re fucking right; I’m out of my mind!” he cried out.
“I married a fucking pauper like you, who won’t even touch me!” he seethed.
“Daimon, not everything is about sex,” I fired back, as I was leaving the room.
“That night it was,” he shouted as he grabbed my arm, stopping me from going further. “That night you came to my penthouse and you needed me. You needed my touch on your body. You wanted my dick inside you.” I tried to fight back, but he grabbed onto both my arms and made me face him. “Admit it,” he commanded.
But I stood silent, his cold distant eyes, needling me. “Fuck, Addie, just say it. Say you needed me, not because of my money, not because of what I could offer you, but because I am me. Just say it!” he begged harshly as he shook me. “FUCK!” he bellowed and released me, when I didn’t answer. “You and your… fuck it.” He walked through the suite, leaving me completely stunned.