Page 78 of An Improper Deal (Elliot & Annabelle 1)
A tremor racks him. His hands clench so tightly, his knuckles turn white.
My mouth keeps going. “Don’t worry. I signed the contract. So I’ll honor it. I won’t be like my father who cheated and lied.”
Our rough breathing fills the room. It takes a while before Elliot finally blinks.
The muscles in his jaw bunch, and his Adam’s apple twitches. “If you think that way, why did you even agree to the deal?” His lips barely move as he speaks.
“Money. What else? That’s all you offered, isn’t it?”
Except for the two red blotches on his cheeks, he’s even paler now, but it’s not the pallor of the sick. It’s the pallor of someone at a precipice and debating whether he should just let loose or rein it in.
I continue, “I need it so I can have the kind of life I want for myself, so I can provide for my sister. I’m sick of not being in control because I have nothing.”
His knuckles are bone white. “You are wrong,” he says. “You already had something, but you just didn’t know it because you thought you were damaged and unworthy somehow.”
“Don’t talk like you know me.”
“Don’t I? You’ve sacrificed everything for your sister. You won’t touch a drop of alcohol. You sold yourself for money because that’s all you put any value on. Without the million bucks I threw in your face, you would’ve never slept with me because you’d never enjoyed sex before.”
Each observation pierces me like a lance, leaving me bleeding. I curl my hands. “Isn’t it great? We decorate our relationship so prettily, but ultimately you’re my john and I’m your whore.”
He closes the distance between us in a step that’s almost a leap. His hands wrap around my upper arms, and he shakes me until my teeth rattle. “If you ever say that about yourself again, I swear to god—”
“You’re hurting me!”
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Instantly, he lets go. The handprints look livid on my bare skin. Anger and regret flit through his eyes, one following the other, as he glares at me.
Then without another word, he stalks out of the room.
I sink to the floor, curling up with my knees supporting my head and my arms wrapped around my folded legs. The area where Elliot grabbed me throbs, but the physical pain is nothing compared to what’s inside me. I feel like somebody’s taken a wrecking ball to my heart.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Elliot
Anger and shame churn as I stride out of the penthouse, pounding against my skull. I have to get the hell out before I do something I’ll regret. I don’t trust myself to talk to her rationally. I’ve already hurt her. The marks on her arms… They’re probably going to bruise. Damn it. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I knew better than to lose control. The last time I lost it… Jesus. I don’t lose control, I don’t let women get to me. They just roll off like raindrops on an umbrella—just as inconsequential and forgettable.
The story of her rape goes through my head in an infinite loop. What the hell? None of the background checks dug up any info about a rape or subsequent pregnancy…or miscarriage. On the other hand, it makes sense that she wouldn’t tell anybody…although it’s mind-boggling that her doctors had no clue. But maybe she never got checked and just let her body do its thing.
I’ve stopped underestimating women—and how far they will go to get what they want.
A violent need to destroy something roils in my gut. I would do anything to go back and rip apart the son of a bitch who took her choice away from her.
You’re just like that boy…
Fuck. Fuck!
I tunnel my fingers into my hair and grip until it feels like it’s coming unrooted. I didn’t… She has no idea what the hell she’s talking about. But then how could she know when I never told her?
My siblings don’t know either. I’ve never talked about it. At first I was a malleable idiot. Then later I was too humiliated and furious.
I’m sure Dad knows everything—it fit his MO. But he also didn’t brag about his role. Men like him are supreme assholes but also know how to manage a public persona. To everyone else in the world, he’s a self-made man who was strict with his children and taught them the value of hard work. So what if he’s had six wives? His success excuses such a minor flaw.
I dig the heels of my hands against my eyes, then blink when the elevator stops at the garage level. I hop into my Maserati and drive, my mind working on autopilot.
