Chapter 24 In Full Control
"Go shower," Rhys orders, his voice now flat, the immediate heat of his fury replaced by cold, controlled command. He tosses the crumpled tuxedo jacket he wrapped around me onto a chaise lounge. "You need to clean that off."
The phrasing, "clean that off," is the final straw. He's talking about Marco's kisses and hands like they are dirt or residue—something to be purged through sheer, cold efficiency.
"Don't tell me what I need," I snap, my voice trembling but rising in pitch. I march toward him, the sheer physical exertion and the terror of the hallway finally catching up. "Who the hell are you to give orders, Rhys? You were negotiating the sponsorship renewal! That man was assaulting your 'asset,' and you stood there and let him touch me until it was strategically inconvenient! You finished your sentence to Jean-Pierre before deciding my immediate safety was worth jeopardizing the deal."
Rhys turns, his eyes dark and lethal. "I was calculating the most efficient way to ensure he never breeds again without attracting the French police, Ellie. Had I reacted a second sooner, I would have cost Apex the weekend. I had him marked the second he followed you." He takes a slow step toward me.
"Marked?" I laugh, a sharp, bitter sound. The sound echoes offensively in the expensive suite. "You sound like a mob boss. This is the difference between us, Rhys. You see territory being breached. I see a person being violated. And your reaction—that suffocating embrace in the hallway—was more terrifying than his hands! You just proved his insult was correct: I am yours to use and protect, not a professional peer."
Rhys closes the distance, his eyes blazing. "You think I wanted to hold you like that? You think that was a calculated move? That was a primitive response, Ellie!" His voice is tight with disbelief at his own actions. "I saw him touch something that is mine to protect—a valuable, critical asset, yes, but also a human being whose vulnerability I swore to guard a decade ago. Marco Rossi will pay for that violation in full."
"You swore to protect my legal solvency, Rhys! Nothing more!" I shout, shaking my head fiercely. "I checked the contract this morning. There is no clause about guarding my vulnerability, only about indemnifying your company against my volatility!" I take a desperate breath. "This control—your rage, your possessiveness—it has nothing to do with contracts and everything to do with the fact that you despise the idea that I can choose my own trajectory!"
Rhys’s anger drains away, replaced by an expression of profound, weary darkness. The tension leaves his shoulders, making him look suddenly heavier and older. "Was the kiss primitive, too?" I challenge him, desperate for the answer he'll never give. He hesitates, his mouth opening, but no cold calculation comes out. The pause is agonizing.
"You are exhausted, Doctor Winslow," Rhys states, regaining his CEO facade with effort. "You are traumatized. Go wash the grime off and go to bed. We will not discuss trajectories until morning."
He effectively dismisses me, locking the confrontation down. I stare at him, defeated by his ultimate, unassailable control, and retreat to the master bedroom, the cold, hard memory of Marco's touch still clinging to my skin.
I take the longest, hottest shower possible, scrubbing my neck until the skin is raw, trying to purge the sickening feeling of Marco’s breath and hands. I press my thumb repeatedly into the spot beneath my ear where his lips had been, whispering, "Get off. Get off," the whispered command doing nothing to scrape away the violation. I step out, my skin pink and stinging, but the memory remains. I pull on an old, oversized silk t-shirt I found in my suitcase—a comforting shroud. The adrenaline is gone, replaced by a terrible, hollow ache.
I climb into the massive, sterile bed and pull the duvet up to my chin. The silence of the penthouse is deafening. I grab my laptop, trying to focus on the numbers—on T compound and P current—anything to anchor myself. I try to pull up the formula for Lagrange stability but the screen wavers. The cold, logical numbers are replaced by the image of Rhys's terrifying, murderous eyes, blending with the deep, buried scars I always keep locked away. The sheer emptiness of the room feels like an absence I can’t tolerate.
Sleep, when it finally comes, is not a relief.
The world is suddenly cold and dim, smelling of stale, cheap beer and the mildewed carpet of the old Boston house. I am thirteen again, too small for my frame, sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, surrounded by textbooks. The room is quiet, the oppressive quiet that only descends when a house is truly empty. I knew Mom and the boys were out—a strategic, short-lived freedom I’d fought for.
Creak.
The sound is not from downstairs. It's the unique, shallow groaning of the floorboard just outside my closed door, the one I always avoided stepping on. My blood turns to ice. There is no one else who should be in the house.
A scent, thick and cloying, begins to infiltrate the air beneath the door: Dale's cologne, a sickly sweet, cheap musk that always signaled danger. The musk begins to taste metallic on my tongue, choking out the clean air. I press my face into the worn texture of the bedspread, uselessly trying to filter it out.
The creak sounds again—slow, deliberate, heavier than any normal step. It's the sound of a patient hunter, confirming that my isolation was his invitation. I count the heartbeats between each creak, realizing he's only two steps from the door. I scramble silently to the door, my hand flying to the small sliding bolt I’d installed myself. It slides uselessly against the frame. He didn't need a key; the door was already open to him. I blink, and then he is there.
Dale, my father—his face twisted by something dark and unrecognizable, his eyes wide and vacant. He is too close, too large, filling the space of the room instantly.