Page 19 of Cruel Deception
The accusation stings, twisting the truth into something ugly. “It wasn’t like that,” I say, my voice shaking. “He forced himself on me.”
“Take it off,” he repeats, his eyes narrowing, daring me to defy him.
My hands tremble as I reach for his belt, the leather cool under my fingers.
My heart’s a drumbeat, loud and erratic, as I fumble with the buckle.
My fingers slip. “Here? What if Luca—”
“Forget Luca.” His voice cut like a blade. “You don’t think about him when you’re with me. You don’t think about anyone else. You kissed me, Charlotte. That makes you mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice turned my blood cold—but my pulse jumped too. I hated that. Hated how his voice, low and vicious, made my skin prickle and my knees weaken. He was toxic. Dangerous. And still... he stirred something in me I couldn’t name, couldn’t silence.
And if being his means getting closer to the truth about my mother... would I sell my soul for that?
“What do you know about my mother?” I blurt, forcing the question through the mess of emotion inside me, desperation overriding fear. “She vanished ten years ago. I’ve been chasingleads, and that night at the club, I kissed you to escape two goons after I stole a file—a file that could find her.”
His eyes flicker, the bulge in his pants fading as he steps back, like he caught himself feeling something.
“Leave,” he says, his voice flat, cold.
I stand, my legs shaky, seizing the chance. “Please, Cassian. If you know anything, help me. She was trafficked to a Chicago syndicate. You run Chicago—you have to know something. I’ll do anything.”
He scoffs, his lips curling into a cruel mockery. “Anything? Like suck me?” His tone is venomous, cutting. “I don’t have your answers.”
“Yes, you do. You said things about her yesterday,” I press, stepping closer, my voice breaking. “You know more than you’re letting on.”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he walked to a nearby panel and pressed a button.
Two guards materialize from the shadows, their suits crisp, their eyes dead. “Take her to her father’s,” he orders, not sparing me a glance.
“No—wait. Cassian, please!” I plead, tears burning my eyes as the guards grab my arms, their grips firm but not cruel.
“Please. If you know anything—anything at all—don’t let her suffer. I’ll do anything.” But he’s already turned away, staring at a decanter of whiskey like it holds more answers than I ever will.
The guards pull me toward the garage, and I’m shoved into the backseat of a sleek black Maserati Quattroporte, its leather interior cold against my skin.
The engine hums as a guard drives me away, the estate’s lights fading into the night.
I storm into my father’s mansion like a woman set on fire, slamming the heavy door behind me as if that alone could shut out everything chasing me.
My heart is a tangled mess of rage, fear, and bone-deep frustration. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The only person who might have answers about my mother—the only one with enough power to actually help—just threw me out like I was nothing.
It’s nearly 9 p.m. and the air in here feels colder than outside. My stomach twists from hunger, but even the thought of food makes me nauseous. What right do I have to eat when my mother could be rotting in a cage somewhere?
I drag myself up the stairs like my body weighs a thousand pounds, every step laced with defeat. My chest still aches from earlier—from the fight, the painkillers, the humiliation—but nothing compares to the hollowness blooming inside me now.
I collapse onto my bed, the silk sheets mocking my turmoil, when a knock jolts me upright.
“Who is it?” I call, my voice sharp.
“Open the door,” my father says, his tone hard.
“It’s not locked,” I say, sitting up as he steps in, his presence filling the room like a storm.
He stands by the bedpost, arms crossed, his tailored suit pristine but his eyes blazing.
“Nico’s dead,” he says, his voice low, dangerous. “His neck was snapped clean. You know anything about that?”
