Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
The thought is tempting.
Without thinking further, I turn on the faucet, choosing a mix of the fragrant oils and bubble baths available. The scent of lavender fills the air, and I feel my shoulders start to relax just a little. I select some of the luxurious bath salts and sprinkle them into the water too, watching as they dissolve and release their calming aroma. The steam rises, and I close my eyes, letting it envelop me, imagining that it’s taking away all the tension building up inside me.
I undress and step into the tub. The water is perfect—warm enough to make my skin tingle but not too hot. Lovely. I feel as if I am bathing in the sky. I sink into the water, feeling it rise around me, and then I let my head rest against the edge. The world outside feels far away, and I almost let myself pretend that this is a beautiful dream. Everything is fine. There is a gorgeous prince waiting for me somewhere in this apartment.
But reality comes crashing back when I look down at the papers on the floor.
I lay my head back and close my eyes, the water continuing to warm me, until eventually, the bath begins to feel less like a comfort and more like a trap—a reminder of the luxury that’s being used to bind me, the softness disguising the control. The scent of the expensive bath salts hangs in the warm air, but instead of relaxing me, I feel a new tension growing in my chest.
My heart feels heavy as I lean back and let the water wash over my shoulders. I close my eyes and for a moment, I let myself drift, imagining another scenario. I was on a fairytale date with Ivan Ivanovich. He really cared about me. I was his girlfriend!
I shake my head at my open stupidity. He is a billionaire. Billionaires don’t choose struggling estate agents to be their girlfriends. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. It’s ornate, with a chandelier hanging directly above me—something you’d expect to see in a palace, not a bathroom in the middle of New York. Everything around me is so extravagant, so immaculate, and yet all I can think about is how much I wish I could disappear into this bath and never come out.
But I know I have to face this.
I rise slowly from the tub, water dripping from my skin, and wrap the towel on the footstool around myself. It’s soft, cloud-soft, and I clutch it tightly as I walk back into the bedroom. I pull at the red ribbons of the gift box and open the lid. Inside is a blood-red silk nightie. It is beautiful, but I glare at it, knowing exactly what it symbolizes. It’s another part of the game—a tool to make me feel small, controlled, like a doll he can dress up however he pleases.
I toss the nightie on the bed. No matter how much I want to tear it up, throw it in his face, and walk out the door, I don’t have that option. Not if I want to save my father. Not if I want to save the agency.
This is my life now, at least for the next one month.
Chapter Twenty-Three
IVAN
It had not even crossed my mind that I’d not be able to stay away from her for the night. I never expected the wild restlessness that would consume me the way a fire consumes a dry field.
Burning, burning…
The throbbing knowledge that she is just across the corridor, waiting, all paid for, completely subject to my beck and call… and yet here I am forcing myself for no good reason to ignore the call. I pour myself a glass of strong whiskey, down it, and lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling. I can’t remember the last time I felt this wound up. As far back as I can remember I have had whoever I want. The fairer have always fallen easily into my lap because of my great privilege, first as my important father’s son and then as a result of my own success.
But tonight, I find myself desperately wanting a woman who actually detests me.
For two hours I endure the torment, but the frustration in my body refuses to settle no matter how hard I try to push her out of my mind. Fuck her. I wrap my hand around my hardness and pump. It’s almost painful. Pathetic, really, but still, it is what it is. I try to picture a woman, any other woman, but her image looking up at me from her awkward position on the ground from that morning refuses to budge from my mind. The more I remember that moment, the sweeter it feels. The friction becomes a good heat and a damn great release. It has me gripping the sheets, caught up in my own need. I tell myself it was not that good, that it’s all in my head. It’s not her, it’s just the idea of a hunt.