Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
“How would you know that?”
“Every time we do something, he never fails to mention when he did it with you or what you told him about it. He’s looking at you all the time; why don’t you look at him?” My voice chokes and I try to clear my throat.
He doesn’t know how lucky he is to have an angel like Jeremy as a son. Adrian wipes a thumb under my eye, his expression warmer, almost like he doesn’t want me to cry. The asshole doesn’t seem to mind when I’m sobbing out my orgasms while he’s punishing me.
“How about you?” he whispers.
“Me?”
“Do you look at me?”
“I have no reason to look at you.”
“No?”
“No. I’m sorry if you think I’m your wife, but I’m not.”
“Yes, you are, Lia.”
“My name is Winter.”
The darkness I thought was gone slams back into his eyes. “That’s six.”
“You can’t erase my name. It’s Winter. At least call me that when it’s the two of us.”
“Seven, Lia.”
I squeeze my lips shut, feeling more tears barging to my eyes. I don’t know why the fact that he refuses to call me by my name has this effect on me, why it feels like he’s cutting me open more than any of his punishments would. It shouldn’t, and yet, a morbid feeling gnaws at my insides, demanding I win this.
Because with each passing day, my real identity is disintegrating and I feel like I’ll become Lia in no time.
“You can play your sick games all you want, Adrian, but you won’t be able to wipe away who I am. What I am.”
“Eight.”
I should cut my losses and keep my mouth shut, but I don’t. I can’t. He has to know that I am my own person, that he can’t transform me into his dead wife.
“My name is Winter Cavanaugh and I was born in Michigan. My father died when I was a toddler, and my mom relocated us to New York for work reasons.”
“Shut up.”
“No! You’ll listen, because I’m not just some blow-up doll who’s playing the sick role of your dead wife. I’m human. I have feelings. I feel.” I suck in a harsh breath before I continue, “After my mom relocated us here, I took ballet classes, even though they were expensive as fuck. When Mom couldn’t afford to pay for them anymore, my teacher took me under her wing as a charity case and paid for them on my mom’s behalf because she couldn’t stand to see my talent go to waste. And you know what? I was a fucking brilliant ballerina. I made all my classmates green with envy because I had strong ankles and could stand on pointe from the time I was goddamn eleven. I was that good. But that was also when the rich kids started ganging up on me, calling me a charity case. Do you know what it feels like to grow up poor, Adrian? Of course, you don’t. You had your rich mob father.”
“Are you going to shut up?”
“No. You’re going to listen. This time, you’re going to fucking listen. I was recruited as a backup in the New York City Ballet when I was sixteen. I thought me and Mom’s life would become rainbows. But no, the dancers there didn’t like me and made it known. They bullied me, changed my broken-in shoes with new ones. They stole my Band-Aids, toe pads, and my elastic bandages and tore my leotards before important performances to stop me from going on stage. But I had a friend who helped me. She gave me a hand and protected me. She let me dance on her behalf sometimes. She had my back throughout the years, and even though her skills were no different from mine, she became a prima ballerina at the age of twenty. I didn’t get very far. I only stayed there, in the background, like a nobody, but I didn’t resent her for it. I was happy for her. I celebrated with her and was thankful I could keep a roof over our head.
“But do you know what happened next? I found out she was the one who’d kept me in the background. All her nice behavior was a ploy to keep me under her thumb. I was so stupid. So fucking stupid. I hated dancing so much after that, so I quit. I left that world and everything that came with it. But she never left my mind. She stayed at the back of it and in my nightmares. She was there when I was a nobody waitress seeing her posters on the streets. She said she wanted one last favor. She had the fucking nerve to ask for a favor. But I couldn’t say no, and do you know why? Because my mom was dying, and I was knocked up by some fucking man whose name I don’t remember and my daughter was born with weak lungs. I took the hotshot ballerina’s offer, which included having my baby daughter ripped away from my hands soon after she was born. When I told my mom about what I was doing to ensure our future, she cursed me to hell, but I didn’t stop. I didn’t have the luxury of stopping.