Page 2 of The Sculptor

A well-respected congressman.

And an evil man.

“Ramsey.” His gruff tone pulls me back to the task at hand—his freaking foot massage.

“Yes, sir?” I blink, looking up at his weathered face and crinkled eyes. He’s such a pompous old bird. “Am I doing it wrong again?”

The words taste like acid, but I force them out, anyway. Whether I like this man or not, he has the information I need. And that information is worth more than my dignity right now.

Langston fondles the auburn hair at my temple, twirling it around his stubby finger. “No, darling, you’re doing fine.”

That’s shocking. Most of the time, I do everything wrong.

“I wanted to tell you we have a guest coming in a few hours.” His tone hardens, and he tugs my hair, pulling me closer so he can grip me by the chin in a bruising hold. “I expect you to be changed and showered before he arrives.” His gaze roams over my skin, settling on my thigh where I’ve drawnhiseyes again. “You’ll be serving us drinks.”

His fingers dig into my chin, but I don’t flinch away. I hold his menacing stare as though my life depended on this show of bravery. And most days, it does. If I don’t get the information I need, everything I’ve dreamed of will be gone.

Unfortunately, Congressman Albrecht is my last hope.

“I want you focused,” he chides, referring to last weekend when he found me outside in the cold, nearly hypothermic. “No drawing.”

Because that’s what I had been doing when he found me shivering and blue.

“You will not draw on yourself. It’s tacky and unbecoming of a congressman’s wife.”

He says the last bit like it should mean more to me than it does.

But the truth is, I don’t want to be Langston’s wife.

I would rather die than marry him.

But I learned a long time ago that true love only happens once in a lifetime.

I found my soulmate.

And then I lost him.

“Do you understand me, Ramsey?”

Langston’s voice sends shivers down my spine.

“Nod your head if you understand.”

I nod out of reflex.

A smile that has seen many Botox injections tips eerily at the corners. “Good girl. I want the best for you, and those silly drawings only bring unnecessary gossip.”

“Of course,” I lie. “You always know best.”

The key to surviving a powerful man thirty years your senior is always telling him that he’s right. For some strange reason, they like making you believe that you cannot think for yourself and need them to guide your every step and decision.

Despite what Langston believes, Icanthink for myself.

My patience and self-control are unbreakable.

I have waited years for this chance to right my wrongs, and no amount of his degradation will stop me now.

I will survive this nightmare.

---