Page 85 of Twisted Control

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is our heavy breathing.

I slowly pull out of her, flip her onto her back, and just…look at her.

She’s wrecked. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, glassy eyes, chest still heaving. Beautiful. Completely fucking ruined.

And she’s mine.

I brush the damp strands of hair from her face, my thumb stroking her cheek.

“Pack your shit. We’re going,” I say.

She stares up at me with those glassy, dazed eyes, lips parted, still trying to catch her breath. For one stupid, hopeful heartbeat, I think I’ve won. That she’s going to choose me.

Then she shakes her head.

“I can’t.”

I stop breathing for a moment, as it all becomes clear.

I’ve been a fucking moron.

She can. She just won’t.

I’m just the hired help who fucks her when she feels like it. The dirty little secret she keeps hidden from her perfect world. Not good enough to be seen with. Not good enough to choose.

The realization burns through my chest like acid.

I push off the bed and yank my sweatpants back up, humiliation and fury twisting together in my gut.

“Enjoy Charles and his wrinkly, half-stiff cock,” I say.

“Drew—”

“Go to hell.”

25

GRACE

The morning of the gala feels unnaturally quiet, like the whole house is holding its breath along with me.

I’m sitting at my vanity, staring at my reflection. I haven’t moved in ten minutes.

Drew left days ago.

He told me to go to hell, walked out, and hasn’t contacted me since. Not one text or call. Nothing. I knew I hurt him when I said I couldn’t leave with him, but some stupid, hopeful little part of me still expected him to cave. To call and say we could keep seeing each other in secret, at least. Just a little longer.

Apparently not.

It’s not entirely my fault—he put me on the spot—but I still feel awful. I had to choose my family. My stability. A future that actually makes sense. You don’t throw your entire life away for a man you’ve known for less than a month…no matter how alive he made you feel. No matter how easily you could just be yourself with him.

I nod at my reflection, trying to convince myself I made the right decision.

It doesn’t help.

I tried calling my mom earlier. Nothing. I tried Jasmine twice. No answer. The silence from both of them feels louder than it should.

If I marry Charles, maybe everything will finally go back to normal. I’ll make new friends—other polite wives in sprawling mansions, all of us smiling on the outside while quietly dying inside and secretly fantasizing about bodyguards who once made us feel something.