Chapter 125: The revelation (3)

Genevieve

The gala was a failure. It was just a room full of people in expensive suits pretending in each other’s faces. Every “congratulations” from a board member felt like a slap. The champagne was too cold, the lights were too bright, and I just wanted to scream.

Father and Uncle Artie had masked the ceremony as a celebration of a merger; meanwhile, it was a funeral for my old life as Genevieve Jacobson. My mother had been awfully silent through all of this.

My father stumbled over to me for the dance. He reeked of scotch and whiskey. He was disheveled. How he managed to stand on his own two feet was a miracle. When he pulled me onto the floor, his hand was clammy, and beads of perspiration formed on his head despite the perfect air conditioning. He was so shaky I felt like I was the one propping him up.

“You look beautiful, Genevieve,” he whispered. His head actually sagged toward my shoulder. He sounded pathetic. “Thank you. Seriously. You’re saving the family, Gen. I know it’s been... a lot these past few days… I mean, I understand that much. But it’s for the best. Everything will fall in place in the end. We’re safe now.”

I looked at his bloodshot eyes and the way his skin looked gray and slack. Any pity I had for him left evaporated. I didn’t feel sad; I just felt this mean, intense hunger to have the kind of power Uncle Artie used to keep him caged. So much power that a man like Richard Jacobson had agreed to sell his only daughter to his friend for money.

I wondered what kind of friendship they had. Were they even really friends? I mean, what friend was buying another’s daughter for sexual needs?

We turned, moving side to side to the steady rhythm of the music. I leaned in, my mouth right against his ear.

“I know you didn’t sell me to save the ‘legacy,’” I said, my voice totally flat. “You sold me to stay out of jail. Don’t thank me for saving the family. I saved you. I’m just the check you used to pay for your crimes.”

His mouth hung open, but he couldn’t even utter a word. He looked small, just a hollowed-out old man who’d traded his daughter to keep his secret hidden. I pulled my hand back and left him standing there, completely alone in the middle of the dance floor.

Uncle Artie was waiting right at the edge of the floor. He didn’t ask. He just stepped in, grabbed my hand firmly, and hauled me back into the crowd.

Where my father was twitchy, Uncle Artie was a sturdy wall. As we moved, he didn’t give a damn that Richard was only five feet away watching us. He was being way too bold.

His hand didn’t stay on my waist; it slid down, his fingers dragging over the silk of my dress on my hip. It was a slow, possessive move, and he did it right in front of the man who had cashed the check—the man I had called father, the man he called friend.

“You’re being really loud tonight,” I whispered, watching my father’s face fall apart across the room.

“I paid enough for the right,” he said.

I looked at him, trying to see past the calm face. “I’ve gone through all the Project Gen files. All of it. Why didn’t you tell me the truth about him? Why let me think you were the only bad guy for months?”

His jaw went tight. For a second, he actually looked annoyed. “Your father is the reason I kept it from you.”

“That makes zero sense. You made it seem like you had this terrible secret that would ruin my life if you told my father, but all this time, he already knew?” I asked. “Did you really think I was stupid?”

“No,” he answered simply, snaking his hand around my waist.

“Then why didn’t you tell me what my father was willing to do for money? Why did you make it seem like I had no choice?” I had many burning questions with no answers.

“If I had told you your father’s request and what my price was, would you have agreed so easily?”

I didn’t answer. He already knew the answer.

“Do you still consider that sick, twisted man your friend?”

“He’s your father, Genevieve.” His fingers dug into the sides of my hips, pulling me close.

“That’s not an answer.”

He didn’t explain. He didn’t give me any big logic that would answer all the burning questions I had. He just grabbed my waist and pulled me hard against his suit until I could feel the heat coming off him.

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, scary tone that always made my breath hitch. “The debt is paid. He’s done, and you’re mine. That’s the only thing that’s real, and you should understand.”

Later that evening, we were in the library. It was quiet, save for the sound of my own ragged breathing. Uncle Artie was leaning against the edge of the mahogany desk, a fountain pen resting right next to the Succession Agreement. He didn’t look tired or relieved; he just looked like he was waiting for me to catch up to the reality he’d already built.

I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t look for a way out or wait for a miracle. The fear I’d felt in the past few days had transformed into this intense, sickening desire that made my skin tingle in excitement. I walked straight to the desk, grabbed the pen, and scribbled my signature across the bottom of the page without even reading the last paragraph.

Genevieve Jacobson was dead. I was his.

“It’s done,” I whispered, dropping the pen. The metal clattered against the wood, sounding like a gunshot in the silent room.

Uncle Artie didn’t say a word. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of my neck to pull me toward him until our bodies were pressed against each other. The kiss was desperate; he slipped a hand around my neck until he was slightly choking me. He bit my lower lip until I tasted copper, and I didn’t flinch. I wanted more of him, more than he had ever given me before.

I pulled him closer. My hands were all over him, tearing at his tie and fumbling with the buttons of his shirt because I needed the fabric gone. I needed to feel the heat coming off him.

He didn’t wait either. I heard the fabric of my gown rip as he bunched it up, his hands rough and hot against my bare skin. He stripped his jacket off and threw it into the air, then moved on to his shirt, the buttons popping as he made room for me to touch him. I kicked my heels off, my breath coming in short gasps as I made quick work of his belt and tossed it aside.

I caressed his hard chest roughly, my fingers tangling in his thick chest hair. I pinched at his nipples, running my palm all over them.

“Mine,” he growled against my throat, his voice that low, terrifying baritone that made my knees go weak. “Say it.”

“Yours,” I choked out, my head rolling back. “I’m yours.”

He shoved a stack of books off the mahogany desk and hauled me up onto it. The wood was cold against my skin, but he was burning, and everywhere he touched me felt hot. He pinned me down, his hands hooking under my knees to pull me flush against his bare chest. He pried my legs apart and, in one fluid motion, thrust into me. His strokes were fast and desperate; there was no slow build. He moved with an intensity that made my vision blur as tears welled up in my eyes.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, digging my nails into his shoulders as he claimed me right there. The room was full of the sound of us—the rhythmic thud of the desk against the wall and the wrecked moans I couldn’t stop if I tried.

Every time he moved, my eyes rolled back, my fingers clenching into the muscles of his back until I felt my skin break under my nails.

It was a total collapse. I didn’t care about anything in that moment. Nothing mattered—not the debt, nor the identity I’d just signed away.

I arched my back, my chest heaving, as the world finally went out of focus. I was drowning in him, and as I stared up at the ceiling, I realized I never wanted to surface.