Page 19 of Fragile Twisted Vows

He also made it clear that I would write a letter to Jenni, detailing that I had finally decided to move in with my secret lover. That I had been sleeping with my sister’s husband for years and I’ve finally agreed to marry him now that they’re legally divorced.

I must admit that my hands trembled the entire time I wrote that letter. Because eventually, Megan will find out. And as terrifying as Damien is, I still don’t feel like I’m protected from her or my family’s wrath.

They hated me then. God only knows what they’ll try to do to me now.

I can kiss whatever hope I had for a reputation goodbye.

I walk into the large, luxury bedroom.

Like the main living area of the penthouse, the room is filled with windows that overlook downtown Manhattan. The bed is a king, dressed with plush, white linens and it sits against and upholstered, black leather headboard on the far right. All of those tall, floor to ceiling windows surrounding that one, upholstered wall.

There’s an elegant oak vanity area, with both an electric fireplace and closet doors and shelves surrounding the big mirror and white, wooden chair. To the right are the glass doors of a very white, marble-looking bathroom. And in the very center of the room is a small set of marble stairs that lead up to an alcove surrounded by windows. It’s the perfect area for an easel. For an artist.

If I wasn’t in the situation that I’m in right now, I might actually be excited.

Okay, I’m lying. I’m a little excited. But the threat of my death and the dark, asshole of a man standing in the doorway watching me has that excitement pretty much evaporated now.

I set my duffle bags on the bed, unpacking my limited clothes as he makes a sound of disgust in the corner.

“Something you’d like to say?” I ask, not bothering him to look at him as I grab my holy jeans and tee shirts to put away alongside a very short, skimpy black dress that I use for busy nights at the bar.

“Am I marrying a tomboy that works as a prostitute at night?” he growls, and I wish I could slap him right across his beautiful face, but my throat is still sore from when he choked me over an hour ago.

I’ve learned that defying him or being smart with him is not the wisest decision if I want to stay alive.

But I learned that long before Damien Reed entered my life.

I’ve been controlled by asshole men since birth.

The only thing new is that this asshole works for an international crime organization. One that I’d really like to dig deep into, but God knows when or how I’ll be able to do that.

“I told you, I don’t have much money,” I say simply, quietly as I fold my cheap clothes and put them away in the fancy armoire-style vanity that still has an obscene amount of empty space.

He’s quiet for a while, but I can feel his eyes watching me closely. They practically burn into my skin.

“Right, well. I can’t have the world thinking that I married a street rat,” he continues after he clears his throat.

Prick.

“Get some sleep. I’ll have Bruno take you to get some clothes in the morning,” he says, but he doesn’t leave.

I can feel him still standing in the doorway, watching me.

“Yes?” I sigh and a scoff leaves his lips.

“Maybe to the salon too. That hair is practically a rat’s nest,” he spits and I grab my hairbrush and throw it in his direction just as he slams the door hard in my face.

“Fucking asshole,” I mumble as I walk to the bed and collapse on top of it.

It’s soft. Too soft actually. I can’t remember the last time I laid on something this comfortable.

Which is probably why my eyes start to drift closed in exhaustion instead of fill with tears now that I’m alone.

I’m too comfortable to cry.

Which is both strange and unnerving to realize, but I don’t think about it for too long because sleep instantly pulls me into its arms.

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