Page 37 of Twisted Love

All I can think about is the vulnerability in her eyes, the way her lips trembled before she forced that defiant smile. The rain outside doesn’t let up, hammering against the windows in a steady, unrelenting rhythm, matching the chaos in my head and heart. As I sink onto the bed, still reeling from the sweetness of her body against mine, I feel unmoored, like I’m digging myself into a hole I’ll never climb out of.

The memory of her surrounds me—her scent, her taste, the way her body yielded to mine, soft and urgent. I can still feel her, every part of her, as if she’s left an imprint on my skin. My chest tightens as I sink deeper into the bed, her warmth still clinging to the sheets like a ghost I can’t shake.

I press my palms against my face.

It was just sex. I tell myself that, over and over, as if the repetition can make it true or false. It was just physical. It was just her body beneath mine, her thighs wrapped around me, her nails digging into my back as she gasped my name.

Her voice still lingers in my ears—those soft, breathless sounds she made, as if I was the only thing tethering her to the world.

I hated it. I loved it. I hated how much I loved it.

The rain continues to fall, unrelenting, as I lie there staring at the ceiling. My body still aches for her. I don’t know if this is victory or defeat, but I know one thing for certain.

I cannot stop. I cannot put away my anger just because of the way her pussy smells. She will not make a fool of me again. I need to continue with this torture until she breaks or I do. This is the only way that there will ever be an end to this relationship.

With this resolve in my mind, I shut my eyes and try to find some sleep.

But sleep does not come.

As the morning light creeps through the curtains, faint and reluctant, casting the room in muted gold, the perfect plan forms in my head. I lie still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Then I throw the covers off with a sharp motion, determined to push her out of my head, at least for now. The cool air bites at me as I stand, and I call the housekeeper. My voice is calm and measured, as I issue the command. My wife will join me for breakfast. I’ll make her sit across from me in silence, let her feel the distance between us—both literal and figurative.

When I enter the dining room, the table is already set for two. The rain has stopped, but the air is still heavy with the moisture. I take my seat at the far end, picking up my phone, going through my emails and checking my stocks.

She appears a few minutes later, led in by the housekeeper. Her steps are sure and her head is held high. The blanket from last night has been replaced by a simple robe tied at the waist. Her hair is still damp, strands clinging to her neck, and the sight makes something twist in my chest.

She takes her seat without a word, her eyes briefly meeting mine before darting away. I let the silence stretch, filling the space between us like a living thing. I know it bothers her. I can see it in the way her hands fidget with the napkin on the table, the way her gaze flickers to the food but she doesn’t eat.

She used to talk endlessly during meals when we were young. Banter, laughter, questions—she’d chatter so much I’d have to feed her myself just to make sure she ate. The memory sneaks in unbidden, and I shove it away, focusing instead on this quiet sullen version of her. I want her to feel it, to remember that we’re not those people anymore.

The clink of utensils against plates is the only sound, each bite calculated, each swallow deliberate. Her presence across from me is aloof and electrifying all at once. When our eyes meet again, I don’t bother hiding the scowl that forms. She looks back at me with defiance. Or hurt? It doesn’t matter.

When I’m done eating, I wipe my mouth with a napkin. She glances at me warily. The air grows heavier with anticipation, her tension so palpable it’s almost stifling. I push back my chair, the screech of wood against the floor breaking the fragile quiet.

“Go get dressed. I’m flying you to New York to do some shopping.”

She blinks, clearly taken aback. “New York? Shopping?”

“Yes.” My tone is cold and calculated, each word laced with intent. The words flow out, cruel and deliberate, each one designed to cut deeper than the last. “I’ve realized I’ve been doing things halfway. If this is purely transactional, as it should be, then I might as well treat you the way you’ve always wanted to be treated. You should be rewarded generously for fucking me. A whore would be if she were in your shoes, so why not you? And let’s be honest, there’s not much of a difference either, is there?”

Her face tightens, but I don’t stop.

“You can buy whatever your heart desires.” I lean forward slightly, my gaze locking onto hers. “Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? Isn’t this the only quality you’ve ever cared about in a man? Someone to spoil you? Someone to give you everything you ever dreamed of?”

Her lips part as if she’s about to say something, but no words come. Her hands grip the edge of the table, her knuckles white, and for a moment, I think she might snap. But she doesn’t. Instead, she nods, her voice steady but icy when she finally speaks.

“Okay.”

The single word hangs in the air, heavy and final, and I stand, signaling the end of the conversation. I don’t give her a chance to linger. “You have thirty minutes. Don’t make me wait a second longer.”

With that, I turn and walk away, a gnawing ache in my chest, each step pulling me further away from her.

CHAPTER23

RAVEN

Istare at the open closet, almost dizzy with disbelief. Is he planning to take me shopping? The old Earl never cared for clothes. Just like me. I have no real interest in clothes and I’m not even a shopping kind of girl. All I ever wanted to do was write and build my life with Earl. I thought he knew that, but I guess this is another sick game he wants to play to torment me. I have no choice but to play along.

The hangers clink together as I push them aside. A simple cream dress catches my eye. It is everything this situation isn’t. I hesitate before pulling it off the rack. It’s a strange kind of rebellion—choosing something so unassuming and dull when I know he expects me to dress to impress. Let him be annoyed. Let him hate it. Let him hate me. I have no energy left for anything else.

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