Page 41 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

“Everything is under control.”

“Except it isn’t,” says Robert, rising from the desk. “Someone killed Lenny, and my money is on your assistant.”

13

OPHELIA

Two mornings later, I wake up, still reeling, still hating my boss for… well, being my boss and keeping me in line.

Watching him give himself a hand job was pure torture, but the torture is never ending. Every time I close my eyes, I see his hands moving over his cock.

I can still taste him on my tongue, even though I’m vigorously scrubbing my tongue with my toothbrush now, trying to remove said taste.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing myself. I usually treat morning routines like sacred rituals, taking my time, applying skincare, lotions, before moving onto makeup. The whole process is therapeutic as I stand in front of the mirror, creating the dream version of myself, one eyelash strip at a time.

I like looking hot, lusting after myself in the mirror every morning.

After my mother died, I learned to be my biggest supporter. Of course, she’s still cheering me on from Heaven, being my biggest cheerleader, but there is only so much you can do from the sky to support someone. Her body is gone. I have no one to hug, nobody to vent to about my problems, other than Sapphire. It was me and her from day one, and my heart still breaks sometimes when I realize she is never coming back.

Grieving her made me love myself more. I poured all my energy into myself, but now I feel as though all the energy has been sucked out of me. The dark bags under my eyes this morning certainly make me look like a walking corpse.

And this all started when I saw that damn crow tattoo.

Perhaps Mr. Moretti is right. Maybe some things are better left unsaid. This could be his way of protecting me. But as much as I want to believe he cares, I also know that the whole “I’m protecting you ordeal” benefits the other person more as they keep dangerous truths hidden, truths that could destroy them.

Mr. Moretti is only looking out for himself and the business.

And still, despite all of that, my heart still gravitates toward him. He steps into the room and my chest immediately opens, ready to receive his warmth… like the guy is such a ray of sunshine.

What the hell is going on with me?

A question for another day.

I spit out the toothpaste, rinsing the white paste away. I watch it spiral down the drain, disappearing without a trace.

My phone rings, interrupting me from my session of feeling sorry for myself.

“Hey,” I say to Sapphire, answering her call.

“He’s dead.”

“Salvatore?”

“No, dumbass,” says Sapphire down the phone. Machines beep in the background, letting me know she picked up a shift at the hospital this morning. “Lenny Foster—the man who Salvatore Moretti beat up.”

“Salvatore didn’t beat him up.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked him.”

“Straight up?” scoffs Sapphire. “You’re playing with fire, babe.”

As I keep getting told…

I sit on the foot of my bed, running a hand through my hair. “The dude died from a broken nose? Is that even possible?”

“In rare cases, yes. But Lenny’s injuries were relatively minor,” explains Sapphire. “He experienced some blood loss, and was advised to stay overnight in the hospital due to being on blood thinners, but there’s no way he could have died from this incident alone.”