Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
The first chance she got, she took it.
Despite everything. Despite the night before when I admitted how I really felt.
She tried to run away.
If it had been the first week, if it had been before everything we said to each other, I might be able to find way past this.
Right now? I don’t think I can ever forgive her.
“There will be new rules,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. It takes more effort than I like to admit. “I can’t trust you anymore.”
“Okay. I understand.” Her voice is flat, like it’s coming from someone else. She looks defeated, slumped over, small.
“We still have a job to do, despite your escape attempt.”
“I get it.”
“There will be new restrictions. Hellie—” I shut my mouth with a click. I want to stride across the room, drag her to her feet, and kiss her hard until her mouth bleeds.
I want her to understand what this means. I want her to feel how this feels.
Instead, I’ll keep going the best I can.
She betrayed me and there’s no coming back from that.
“I know,” she whispers. She’s blinking away tears.
Crying? Why the fuck would she be crying?
“Stay here until someone comes to get you.” I turn and move to leave because I don’t think I can handle this. I’m too raw.
“It wasn’t because of you,” she says before I can go. I don’t turn around to look at her. That doesn’t help—it anything, I feel worse. If I stay right now, I’ll say something I might regret, I’ll do something that will make me hate myself, and I don’t want that. “It wasn’t because of you,” she repeats softly.
“Doesn’t matter,” I answer.
I walk away and lock the door.
Chapter 33
Hellie
I cry a lot that first day. Erick doesn’t come back. The look on his face as he turned to leave the room haunts me. It was so pained, like I stabbed him in the guts and kept on twisting the knife.
He doesn’t come back. He doesn’t ask me to explain. Food appears, carried up by Marina, who at least seems a little sympathetic. “Is he okay?” I ask her that night once dinner arrives. “At least tell me he’s okay?”
“Erick Costa is a very strong man. It’ll take more than you to break him.” She gives me a sad smile and leaves.
That doesn’t make me feel better.
I barely touch my food. I’m stuck in the room with nothing to do, my head going crazy, alternating between hating myself and hating Ren, even though I know it isn’t Ren’s fault.
He’s Erick’s best friend. He’s loyal to the Costa family above all else, and can I really be angry with him for testing me? I fell into the trap willingly with a big smile on my face.
I’m the one that tried to run.
I made that stupid decision, and it’ll haunt me for a long time.
To kill time, I take a long, hot bath. I try to relax, but I keep seeing Erick’s face, twisted in agony and rage and heartbreak.
I did that to him.
For a good reason. Not because of him, but because of that email, even though he doesn’t know that and I can’t ever tell him.
From his perspective, I tried to run because I wanted to get away from our relationship.
I debate telling him the truth. Over and over, I question my decision. If I tell him about my father’s email, he might actually understand why I did it. But no matter how I look at it, I keep coming back to the same facts. I can’t tell him, I can’t risk my father’s life, I can’t stoop to that level. I have to save myself and my father, even if it means losing Erick.
I try to sleep. It doesn’t go great.
The next morning, breakfast arrives, but I don’t recognize the guy that drops it off. He has big, dark eyes, dark hair, and glares at me like I’m an annoying hamster. “Eat, shower, dress. You have work in a half hour.” He leaves again, locking the door behind him.
I don’t understand what he means, but I follow his instructions anyway. Thirty minutes later, at exactly seven in the morning, the door opens again. It’s the same guy—broad, built like a bull, more shoulders and back and chest than head and neck, with arms like wrecking balls—and he gestures for me to follow. I walk after him to the studio.
“Work,” he says jabbing a hand toward my painting. “On the job. No other stuff. Boss’s orders.”
“Wait.” I look around in a panic. “Not my own art?”
“No. On the job. If I catch you doing anything else, I have instructions to lock you in your room. If it keeps happening, we’ll start taking away comforts.” The big guy leaves, closing the door behind him.
Something clicks. A lock slams shut.