Chapter 6 Confession
BECCA'S POV
I woke to unfamiliar silk sheets and the scent of expensive cologne clinging to my skin.
For a moment, I didn't remember where I was. Then it all came rushing back; the confrontation with Carmen, the elevator, Mark's hands on my body, the way he'd looked at me like I was the only thing in his world that mattered.
Oh God.
I sat up, the sheet clutched against my chest.
Sunlight spilled through floor to ceiling glass, soft and gold, making everything feel like a dream you’re scared to wake from.
This was Mark’s private room. No one else’s footsteps here.
Until me.
My clothes were scattered across the floor like little flags of bad decisions. My blouse over a chair, skirt puddled near the door.
My palms pressed into my eyes. Was it just tension snapping? Or was it something dangerous, real, a door I wasn’t ready to open?
I’d promised myself after Asher: no men, no trust, no vulnerability. And yet here I was, in Mark Simmons’s bed, stripped of every wall.
A voice came from the doorway, low enough to make me hold my breath.
“I know what I’m doing, Ethan. Just give me more time.”
It was Mark's with the sharp edge in his tone.
“The bet was your idea, not mine. And yeah, things have changed. She’s not just…. look, I can’t talk about this now. She’s still here.”
Bet?
“I’ll handle it. Keep your mouth shut for now.”
The call was cut off and I heard footsteps approaching.
I lay back down, forcing my heartbeat to slow, my eyes shut.
The door clicked. His presence filled the room before his shadow reached me.
His fingers brushed my cheek.
Gosh it was so soft but still had its masculinity in it.
“I know you’re awake, Angel.”
I opened my eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed, already in dark jeans and a white T-shirt clinging to his chest. Damp hair, with his icy blue eyes fixed on me.
“How are you feeling?”
“Confused,” I said, pulling the sheet closer. “About last night. About… what it means.”
A flash across his face, guilt? Fear? It was gone before I could discern what it was.
“It means I care about you. Probably more than I should do.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. My body was screaming to his touch.
“And I don’t regret it. Do you?”
I should have lied. I would have built my bricks back up. But the way he looked at me…like I was rare, breakable, worth protecting.
He left me defenseless.
“No,” I whispered. “I don’t regret it.”
His smile was slow, wrecking. “Good. Come on. Breakfast?”
His kitchen looked exactly like the ones on television. Marble counters, stainless steel, with a skyline view of Atlanta that made me dizzy. I perched on a barstool, wearing one of his shirts that swallowed me to mid-thigh, and watched him move.
“You cook?”
He gave me a look over his shoulder. “Don’t sound so surprised. Carmen and I lost our parents early. Someone had to learn.”
The air shifted. “I’m sorry,” I murmured.
“It's a long time ago.” He cracked the eggs into a bowl, cream poured in, his hands steady.
“It was a car crash when I was nineteen. Carmen was twelve. I had to grow up fast to take over the company, sister. Maybe that’s why she’s so… protective. Possessive.”
Why the heck was he telling me all this?
Not like I didn't feel remorseful for him but him justifying his sister's action? Hell no, that's a red flag.
“And she thinks I’m a threat.” I added.
“She’ll come around.” No conviction in his voice.
He whisked, reaching for salt. Light caught the faint scars on my hands from weeks ago. He noticed.
“Let me see,” he said, abandoning the eggs. He took my hands, turned them over like fragile glass.
“They’re nothing,” I said.
“They’re something to me.” He kissed each mark, slow. “You helped me when I was down. Let me return the favor.”
He got the first-aid kit from a cabinet. Cool ointment on my skin. My throat went tight.
“Mark…”
“Shh. Just let me, Angel.”
So I did.
The mood shifted again when he decided pancakes were non-negotiable. He handed me the flour. Somehow I dusted his shirt with it.
“Did you just…” He looked down at the white smear, then at me with mock outrage. “Oh, you’re dead.”
“It was an accident!” I laughed, a real laugh, surprising myself.
“Sure.” he flick the flour back at me, a white puff across my hair.
“Mark!” I squealed, grabbing a handful.
An all-out flour war. By the time he caught me from behind we were both coated, laughing like kids who’d escaped detention.
“Gotcha,” he murmured into my ear.
The laughter died. His arms stayed around me, his chest against my back. Our heartbeats fast and hard, echoing mine.
“Becca,” he called out .
I turned, tilted my face up. So close I could see the tiny gold flecks in his eyes, I felt l his breath against mine.
“We’re a mess,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he said, gazing at my mouth. “We are.”
Then boom… our lips locked in again
This kiss was nothing like last night’s. It was slow, deep, memorising. His fingers slid into my hair; I melted, all my defenses dissolving like sugar in coffee.
He lifted me onto the counter, the shirt riding up, his palms warm on my bare thighs.
Heat uncoiled low in my belly. His mouth trailed down my neck.
“Angel,” he breathed. “Tell me to stop.”
“Don’t stop,” I gasped, gripping his shoulders.
He groaned and then his phone buzzed.
Everything froze.
His forehead was still against mine “Ignore it.”
He wasn't ready to let go but the spell had cracked.
His phone buzzed again
“You should get that,” I whispered.
He swore, snatched it. Screen lit: Ethan
“Dude, the guys are asking about the deal. Have you all won those shares yet?”
Ice water ran through my veins.
Mark’s face drained. He locked the phone, shoved it away.
“Becca…”
“What deal?” He was quiet like he had committed a crime “What shares?”
“It’s nothing. Just business.”
Every instinct of mine, kicked that he was lying
“Don’t lie.” I slid off the counter. “I heard you this morning. Bet. Now shares. What is going on?”
“Becca, please. It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me.”
His hand went through his hair, “I can’t. Not yet.”
The walls slammed up. “You’re keeping secrets. After last night. After everything.”
“It’s complicated,”
“Then uncomplicate it!” My voice cracked. “I trusted you. Do you know how hard that was after Asher?”
Pain flickered. “I know. I swear I’ll explain. Just give me a little time. Please, Angel.”
I wanted to believe him so badly it hurt. But I’d believed before.
Excused red flags before. I paid for it in bruises and broken promises.
“I need to get dressed,” I answered flatly. “And space to think.”
“Becca…”
“Please. Just give me space.”
He looked stricken but nodded. “Okay. I’ll go.”
After he left, I stood in the wreck of our morning, flour on counters, flour in my hair. I was blinking so hard to control the tears.
A small card poked out from under a stack
of mail.
I picked it up.
On the back, in Mark’s handwriting, it had one word: Wager.
My hands shook.
A bet. Shares. A wager.
What exactly had Mark been betting on?
And worse, was I the prize?