Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
He’s still the master of the game.
A man who refuses to be beaten, even by his own mistakes.
7
Frankie
—
Monty’s bedroom is the last stop on Leo’s security patrol. He and Kody wait at the doorway, refusing to enter before me, as if it’s a restricted crime scene.
It’s just a room.
No longer my room.
“You guys go ahead.” I wave them on.
They don’t move, don’t speak. I might’ve heard a growl.
Their battle-ready postures suggest they’re prepared for any reaction I might have. As if I’ll be triggered into violence.
I don’t have triggers, do I?
Jesus, I hope not.
I can’t even look at the man standing beside me. I feel Monty everywhere, in my space, under my skin, breathing, watching, analyzing.
My hesitation only makes this a bigger deal than it is.
“Fine.” Heart pounding, I push past them and step inside.
The large bed that Monty and I once shared sits in the center, immaculately made, as if it hasn’t been touched since that night.
The table on his side holds a clock, a bottle of sleeping pills, and chargers for his devices. The table on my side has the one thing I left on it.
The glass of bourbon I never drank, the liquid partially evaporated, leaving behind decomposed cherries.
What the fuck?
“Where have you been sleeping?” Unnerved, I keep my back to him.
“When I’m home, I sleep in our bed. But I already told you. I haven’t been home in months.”
He also said there were no other women after Aubrey.
Do I believe him?
A man with his insatiable sex drive and stamina wouldn’t abstain. Especially not with the way women throw themselves at him.
Do I care?
Nine months ago, I did.
I turn to the window with the view of the dock, the scene of that terrifying night reflecting back at me. The burn of rope against my skin. The scent of latex gloves. The rumble of Denver’s raspy voice.
Don’t struggle. This will only hurt a little.
“I was standing here, waiting for you to come home.” The memory chokes me, tightening like Denver’s restraints. “I thought when I heard movement behind me…” I spin, startled to find Monty right there, too close. I step back. “I thought it was you.”
“It should’ve been me.” His face tightens, remorse rolling off him in waves. “I made an unforgivable decision that night, one I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I’m sorry.”
Leo barrels toward us, his bearing rigid. I shake my head, and he huffs, his anger directed at Monty. But he stays back.
I glance at the fire detector above the bed. “Denver removed a camera from there.”
Monty follows my gaze. “I’ve had the entire estate swept for bugs and recording devices. It’s clean.” He looks at Leo. “Go ahead. Check this room, too.”
Leo bares his teeth at him and returns his attention to me, waiting to jump in if I need him.
“Everything is just as you left it.” Monty watches me wander through the room, his presence evoking nostalgia for the whispered dreams, tender cuddles, and wild sex we shared here.
Until I’m hit with the memory of our last fight. As I circle the bed, I stare at the spot on the floor where he crushed the pregnancy test beneath his cruel shoe, the echo of the crunch splintering in my ears.
As if reading my thoughts, he stiffens, struggling between his desire to draw closer and the knowledge that he lost the right to reach out.
Swallowing hard, I make my way to the walk-in closet and push open the door.
Inside, everything is disturbingly familiar. My clothes hang exactly how I left them, untouched and organized by seasons. My running shoes lie on the floor, one flopped on its side, where I kicked them off nine months ago.
“I don’t understand.” I trace the rows of hangers holding my garments, my fingers coming away with dust.
But Monty’s clothes hang freshly cleaned.
Aurora, the housekeeper, must have been given orders not to touch my things.
Charging out of the closet, I head to the en suite bathroom.
Seeing my personal items still lined up on the counter is even more unsettling. My favorite perfume sits beside my cleansers. My hair products and body wash still hog the single shelf in the shower.
In the drawers, I find my collection of soaps, lipsticks, and razors organized by my own hands. Even my hairbrush, with a few strands of red hair tangled in it, lies next to the sink.
Why keep these reminders of me as if waiting for my return? It’s both touching and troubling, smearing the lines of his feelings and intentions.
Returning to the bedroom, I make a beeline to the dresser and pull open the drawers one by one. Each is filled with my folded clothes. Leggings, bras, underwear, camisoles—everything is here, arranged with my go-to pieces on top.
These things weren’t put back in anticipation of my return today.
They’ve been here the whole fucking time.