Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87996 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87996 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
My eyes were half closed, my cheeks were rosy, and my lips slightly parted.
It looked like I loved what Marksen was doing to me.
Who was I kidding?
I had loved it.
Until he’d betrayed me, I’d loved every single moment of him thrusting into me, whispering dirty things in my ear, and even the feeling of other people watching me. It had by far been the most erotic moment of my life, which, granted, wasn’t saying much, but at the time I couldn’t have imagined anything else ever topping it.
The article with those pictures also had my name on it, but it was extremely different.
It described in graphic detail the events of the night.
It even went so far as to describe my “Poseidon” as being a cruel lover who stroked my clit but refused me release while I watched the others around me enjoy the pleasures of the flesh in ways only befitting nymphs and satyrs.
My stomach twisted until I covered my mouth with my hand, afraid I was about to vomit. “Is this published?” I asked, my words muffled.
“Not yet.” Marksen had retaken his seat and was reading the paper as he casually sipped his coffee.
“Why?”
“Why isn’t it published yet, or why are there two versions?”
“Both.”
He put down his paper, folding it painfully slowly, and took another long sip of his coffee before focusing on me.
“Credibility.” He shrugged. “Now, if the alternate version goes live, no one will believe it was faked. Not only is your name on it but it was also published by you. The first article was sent to your team through your e-mail. You have already gotten a few e-mails from your team saying how much they love the article and your dress.”
“If the second article goes up, you will destroy me. I will be laughed out of every single business meeting.” Heat rose in my cheeks and tears filled my eyes. I was getting really tired of crying … and even more tired of being his pawn, pushed around this sadistic chessboard.
“It’s just your reputation, dear. According to you, it’s not that important. It will mend, and soon all of this will be yesterday’s news.”
“No.” I stood from the table. “I said your reputation can heal, mine can’t. Your reputation was gifted to you by your family, it has stood strong for generations and can handle a little gossip.”
“Your family’s name is just as strong,” he scoffed.
“Yes, it is, and my brother benefits from that. I do not. I’m not sure if you noticed, but I am a woman—”
“I have spent enough time between your thighs to notice,” he quipped.
With a deep breath, I chose to ignore that comment. There was only so much rage one person could handle in a single moment. I wasn’t about to let him bait me into being angry for the wrong reason.
“Then you should know I have to work twice as hard to be thought of as half as good. I have to stand my ground and fight for my business every single day.”
“You think I don’t?” He stood, facing me.
“No, I don’t think you do. You walk into a meeting where men shake your hand and listen to you like the only source of oxygen left in the world is the hot air you are spewing. I get treated like a silly little girl who lost her way to the kitchen. Every move I make, every smart choice, the credit goes to my brother or my father, who are not involved. They assume the success I have was given to me, either because of my brother’s influence or because I clearly must have slept my way to the top. I have to demand their attention without being too forceful, because if I am too forceful, then I am just a ‘crazy, unstable woman who needs a good fucking.’ But then, even if I work my ass off, even when I demand respect and earn it, I still have to deal with the misogyny when the men joke and ask whose dick I sucked my ideas out of, or wouldn’t I be happier at home raising babies. Or the assumptions some make that because I’m twenty-five and lack a husband I must be a lesbian.”
Marksen tried to interrupt me again, and I talked right over him, my voice growing louder.
“I may lead a privileged life, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t work my ass off, and it doesn’t mean that I don’t still have to deal with constant bullshit. So what do you do? You fuck me, not even stopping to wonder why a twenty-five-year-old is a virgin. You didn’t think about me as a person. You just saw what you wanted and took it. Then not only did you put me in situations that demeaned me as a human being, but you’re exposing me to every single asshole I have had to grin and bear in order to get shit done. You are telling them they were right about me. That I’m not a smart businesswoman, that I’m not a talented writer, that all I am is a silly little girl playing at having a job until a man comes along and fucks this rebellious nature and silly little hobby out of me.”