Chapter 354: Venting
He turned and left with apparent casualness, yet every step was calculated: Emily's appearance might just make her a more useful puppet.
When Gerald returned to his hotel suite, the sunny smile had vanished from his face. He loosened his collar, opened the liquor cabinet, poured half a glass of hard liquor, and downed it in one gulp. His Adam's apple bobbed, but his eyes held only coldness.
He dialed a number. "Send Kismet up."
Half an hour later, Kismet appeared at the door.
She was dressed impeccably—a champagne-colored silk dress with a plunging neckline that revealed deep cleavage, her hair carefully styled, makeup flawless. But this polished exterior couldn't hide the fatigue from prolonged anxiety: faint shadows beneath her eyes, tension at the corners of her mouth, unease lurking in her gaze.
She paused at the threshold, as if weighing her situation, then finally stepped inside.
The door closed.
The atmosphere inside was far from welcoming.
Gerald didn't even look at her, standing with his back to her by the floor-to-ceiling window, still holding his glass. Outside was Seraphim's nightscape—dazzling lights, flowing traffic—but his silhouette stood like a wall of ice.
"Come here." His voice was terrifyingly calm, devoid of warmth or emotion.
Kismet's steps hesitated, her heels making soft sounds on the carpet. She stopped about two paces behind him.
Gerald suddenly turned.
His movement was shockingly fast. Kismet didn't even see how he moved before her wrist was caught in his grip. The force was enough to crush bone. She gasped sharply from the pain.
"It hurts..." she couldn't help whimpering.
Gerald let out a cold laugh—short and icy. With a violent jerk, he flung Kismet onto the sofa—not a gentle push, but throwing her like an object, merciless.
She fell awkwardly, hair disheveled, hem riding up. Before she could react, Gerald was on her, knee pinning her legs, one hand clamping both wrists above her head.
"Mr. Rivera..." Kismet's voice trembled.
He didn't answer, only lowered his head to kiss her—if it could be called a kiss. It was more like biting, tasting of alcohol and rage. His other hand roughly tore at her collar, the sound of ripping silk piercing in the silent room.
Kismet bit her lip hard, forcing herself not to make a sound. She knew this wasn't lovemaking—it was pure release. Gerald was venting some fury she couldn't comprehend.
His movements came without warning, without any tenderness. Each thrust felt like punishment, each touch carried humiliation. Kismet closed her eyes as tears slid from the corners, but she bit her lip stubbornly, refusing to let any sound escape.
She thought of childhood, of the pride she once possessed—when she'd been the center among children, Charles's protector, the person everyone looked up to.
And now, she could only lie here like a dog, enduring this man's brutality.
After the first time, Gerald didn't stop.
He flipped her over, movements still rough. Kismet's face buried in the sofa cushion, breathing difficult. She could feel Gerald's fury hadn't subsided—it was intensifying.
The second time. The third...
Kismet felt like a torn doll, each time plunging her deeper into terror. She cracked her eyes open slightly, seeing Gerald's handsome face—now twisted like a demon's, eyes holding no warmth, only cold desire and something darker still.
She suddenly realized she knew far too little about this man.
Finally, after the last time, Gerald stopped.
He stood, pushing her aside like discarded trash, striding straight to the bathroom. He didn't even glance at her, as if she were merely a used tool to be discarded.
The bathroom door closed. Water ran.
Kismet curled on the sofa, trembling all over. Slowly she sat up, hands shaking as she tried to arrange her clothes—the collar was torn beyond repair, she could only pull it together loosely. Her fingertips were white, breathing still unsteady, each inhale bringing pain.
She kept her head down, forcibly enduring the humiliation, maintaining the posture of a compliant partner.
She couldn't cry. Couldn't show weakness.
This was the path she'd chosen.
The bathroom door opened. Gerald emerged already changed into clean clothes—light gray loungewear, hair damp, looking once again lazily casual, as if the violent man from moments ago had never existed.
He sat on the sofa, idly playing with his phone, fingers sliding across the screen.
Kismet sat across from him, not daring to look up.
After several minutes, Gerald tossed his phone onto the coffee table.
On the screen was a captured shot of Emily swinging a golf club: profile cool, gaze sharp. The photo was professionally taken, catching the power and grace of her swing—an innate presence that transcended the screen.
Gerald stared at Kismet. "Who is this?"
Kismet's pupils contracted sharply.
Her fingertips nearly pierced her palms, pain keeping her lucid. But stronger than pain was the hatred nearly spilling over.
Her voice squeezed through clenched teeth. "Emily. Charles's woman."
Gerald raised an eyebrow. "You're sure?"
Kismet laughed coldly, voice trembling. "No matter how they pretend in public, they're together. She's the one standing in my way—"
She lifted her head, eyes twisted with venom. "You want to deal with Charles, don't you? Then finish him quickly. And give Emily to me."
"Give her to you?" Gerald laughed as if he'd heard a joke.
The sound was light but chilling. He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Kismet, are you ordering me?"
Kismet's face went pale.
Gerald stood, walking to her. He bent down, gripping her chin, forcing her to look up.
"You can hate her. But you need to understand what you are now."
Fear flashed in Kismet's eyes.
She understood her situation perfectly: she'd come begging Gerald for cooperation, needing the Rivera family's power against Charles. And the price was herself—her body, her dignity, everything.
"I just want her—" she still insisted stubbornly.
Gerald released her, patting her cheek.
The gesture was light, like toying with a pet, but Kismet felt as though she'd been slapped. Her cheek burned—not from physical pain, but from psychological humiliation.