Page 37 of Twisted Addiction
Once inside, he strode through the grand foyer without looking back. I followed, my footsteps echoing after his.
“I’m sure being alone here bores you,” he said finally, his tone measured as he reached for the study door. “Tell me what you’d like to do. I’ll make the arrangements.”
I stopped in my tracks, thrown off by the sudden generosity in his tone. “What I’d like to do?” I echoed, wary.
He faced me then, expression unreadable. “Yes. A hobby. A business. Something to distract you from sneaking off to underground races.”
I crossed my arms. “You make it sound like I’m a child acting out.”
His mouth curved, faint but sharp. “Aren’t you?”
My jaw tightened. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to act out if I didn’t feel caged.”
That made him pause. His gaze softened—barely—but enough to sting. “You think I want you caged?”
“I don’t know what you want.” I admitted, voice low. “But I want something of my own. Something that doesn’t belong to your world.”
He stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space between us. “Name it.”
I hesitated. “Maybe... a restaurant. Something small. I like cooking.”
His brow arched slightly, the faintest flicker of surprise—or amusement. “Cooking?”
“Yes,” I said, forcing confidence into my voice. “It’s simple. Honest. Something that feels... normal.”
He studied me for a long, uncomfortable moment, like he was trying to decide if this was rebellion or sincerity.
“And you’d run it?” he asked finally. “Handle the staff, the finances, the customers?”
“I can,” I said. “I want to.”
He exhaled, a slow drag of sound. “Fine. I’ll make it happen.”
Hope flickered—and then he crushed it as effortlessly as lighting a cigarette.
“But you won’t serve anyone,” he added, tone turning cool again. “Not men. Not at all. You’ll cook, you’ll manage, you’ll watch. That’s all.”
Silence fell between us, thick with things neither of us wanted to name. I wanted to thank him, to hate him, to understand him—but all I could do was nod.
His gaze dropped to my stomach, and I instinctively covered it with my hands, a reflex born of both fear and shame.
My pulse quickened under his silence.
“And you’ll terminate that pregnancy tomorrow,” he said finally, his tone flat. “It’s the only way to save your life, Penelope.”
I blinked, sure I’d misheard. “Excuse me?”
His eyes flicked to mine, cool and steady. “You heard me. I’ve spoken to the doctor. The risk is too high.”
Chapter 10
PENELOPE
Istood frozen for a moment, his words circling me like ghosts.
Then the weight of it—of everything—crushed me. My legs gave way, and I collapsed onto the chaise, pressing a shaking hand over my stomach.
The thrill from the race, the flicker of hope his talk of the restaurant had sparked—it all dissolved, leaving only the cold echo of his command.
