Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 72308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Bartholomew stared at me for a while longer, his eyes slightly sympathetic. “Take care, Camille.”
I released a painful sigh.
“It was nothing personal.” He gave me a slight nod before he walked to the SUV parked at the curb. He got inside and drove away, and once he was gone, I knew my life had changed. Just when I thought I’d made progress toward a different future, I was ripped straight back into the past.
I knew Cauldron could show up at any moment.
I didn’t bother taking off my dress.
I sat on the couch with a glass of wine in hand, knowing a knock would sound on my door at some point. A little buzz would make the conversation more bearable. The night deepened to some unearthly hour, and my stomach gave a quiet rumble because I’d skipped dinner.
Then I heard it.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Shit…” I remained seated, staring into the hallway that led to the front door. I could ignore him, but that would only last for a minute or two. He’d break down the door or come at me some other time. There was no escaping this.
Knock. Knock. Knock. It was louder this time, filled with impatience.
I left the wine behind and headed to the front door. Without checking the peephole, I opened it, coming face-to-face with the man I didn’t want to see. In jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, he stared at me with his arms by his sides. His eyes flicked back and forth between mine as he studied my reaction, as if there was a chance Bartholomew hadn’t told me that I’d changed hands like a goddamn horse.
Now he knew.
“You may have bought me out, but I’m not your whore. If you think I’m going to get on my back for you, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”
His eyes continued to examine mine in silence. There was no rebuttal.
“You got that?”
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”
“Excuse me? For what?”
“Dinner.” He turned around and took the stairs.
“Not happening. You don’t own me, Cauldron.”
He stopped on the bottom step and slowly turned around.
I held my ground and stared him down.
“Actually, I do own you. I own you until the conclusion of your contract. If you wanted to keep your rights, you shouldn’t have sold yourself to Jerome. You shouldn’t have walked into that bar and put yourself at the mercy of men like me.” He walked back up the steps, taking his time until he was right in front of me again. “You made your bed. Now lie in it.”
“This is bullshit.”
Jerome sat in his chair and gave a slight shrug. “I’m sorry, Camille.”
“This can’t be right. He can’t do that.”
“Grave did the same with Elise. Subleases happen.”
“But it was without my knowledge.”
He gave another shrug. “The guy who owns the contract can do whatever he wants.”
“I’m a fucking person.”
He just stared at me.
“There’s gotta be a way out of this.”
He shook his head.
“I won’t do it. Get me another client.”
“I can’t, Camille.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because Bartholomew is still paying his fee, which means you’re unavailable.”
“He doesn’t have to know anything.”
“I’m not stupid enough to take on both Bartholomew and Cauldron. And no one is going to want to buy a contract when they know you’ve already got a contract and a sublease with two powerful men. You’re stuck.”
I slumped in the chair, devastated. “This can’t be happening.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t agree to this.”
“Doesn’t matter. You should have read the fine print before you signed the contract.”
Shame on me.
“Do your time. Make the best of it.”
“Make the best of it?” I snapped. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
22
CAMILLE
He knocked on the door—at seven o’clock sharp.
“Here we go…” There was no escaping these two men. I was either at the mercy of Grave or at the mercy of Cauldron. Depending on the day of the week, it could change. I assumed we were going somewhere fancy, so I’d put on a black cocktail dress with pumps with a sharp point, you know, in case I needed to kick him in the balls.
I opened the door, seeing him standing in his signature long-sleeved shirt and dark jeans.
His eyes were locked on mine, and they looked empty down to their core. When he’d come to my home to talk to me about Bartholomew, he’d worn his heart on his sleeve, showed a side of himself that hardly existed, but that was long gone now. He was back to his former coldness. Now that he owed me, he didn’t have to be nice, didn’t have to say a word to me. “You look beautiful.”
“Really? I thought I looked angry.”
“I’ve always thought you look beautiful when you’re angry.” A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
I marched past him to the car. “Let’s get this over with.”
He drove to the restaurant and tossed the keys to the valet before we headed inside. A table was waiting for him, a lone white candle in the center. The wine was poured, and the bread was placed between us.