Chapter 98
Sienna's pov
I knew something like this might happen. After all, who could predict what went on in a place like Golden Harbor?
But now that it was real, I wished those few days had never happened.
“Mrs. Blackwood, are you all right?” Martha scooped my phone off the floor and offered it back to me. “Why did you throw it?”
I pointed at the bed, motioning for her to set it down. My lips trembled too hard to speak.
She didn’t pry. She only patted my back until I could breathe again, though my thoughts stayed knotted and loud.
Then the screen lit up. Before I even reached for it, my stomach sank—I knew it would be connected to the photo.
I unlocked the phone.
[If you want the photos destroyed, transfer ten million dollars to this account within two weeks. Otherwise, I’ll make sure your photos are on every screen in New Haven.]
This time I didn’t throw it, but the number still stunned me. Ten million in two weeks was impossible. And even for Harrison, a sudden transfer that large would gut a company already limping. I didn’t have the right to drag him into my mess.
Whatever appetite I’d had for going out vanished.
“Martha, I’m fine,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. “You can go. I want to sleep.”
“Wait. Take your medicine first.”
Compared to everything else, the bitter cup felt almost merciful. I swallowed it and lay back down, and sleep took me fast—but it didn’t spare me. The images followed me into dreams, trapping me in the same terror over and over.
When I woke again, afternoon light lay thin across the room.
I sat up—and something struck my cheek. Photographs slid over the blanket.
An icy voice cut in. “Sienna. I didn’t realize you could be this filthy under another man. I really underestimated you.”
Harrison stood at my bedside. More photos scattered across my lap, glossy and unforgiving. I hadn’t seen most of them before.
My throat tightened as I registered what they showed: a woman forced into positions that made my skin crawl, men’s hands everywhere, her face caught between blankness and pain. One shot was the same solo photo from this morning.
It had only been half a day. How did he already have them?
He knew what happened. He knew I hadn’t chosen any of it. So why was he looking at me like I’d confirmed his suspicions?
“What’s wrong with you?” My voice came out raw. “You know I was forced. I’m the victim.”
His fingers clamped my chin, his thumb pressing at my lower lip. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said. “And even forced, you didn’t look like you hated it.”
My breath stalled.
In the next moment he shoved me back. The mattress swallowed me as he moved over me, hands tearing at fabric. My wrists were yanked up; a tie looped around them, binding me to the bedpost with brutal speed.
“Sienna,” he said close to my ear, “since you like being forced, I won’t bother being gentle. You don’t deserve it.”
“I don’t,” I choked. “I don’t like it. Harrison, let me go—”
I blinked hard.
And found myself staring into real eyes, inches from mine—not dream-glass, not warped cruelty.
Harrison was propped on one arm, his other hand resting against my cheek, his touch strangely light. “Nightmare?” he asked.
The word didn’t untangle me. I bolted upright, and before I could think, I slapped him.
The crack echoed. He froze, stunned for a beat. I scrambled backward, curling into the corner of the bed, dragging the blanket to my chest.
“Get out,” I said, shaking. “I don’t want to see you.”
For a moment I couldn’t tell dream from reality. The humiliation felt familiar because he’d said versions of those words before.
If he really saw those photos… what would he do?
His brows drew together, anger flashing and then stalling. Instead of storming out, he leaned in again, shadowing me, and cupped my face—this time not rough, just firm. His gaze searched mine.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Martha said you were scared this morning. What did you see?”
It didn’t sound fake, and that made me wary. I shook my head. “It’s none of your business. I need time alone.”
“Sienna.” He held my face still and pressed his forehead to mine. “Tell me what you dreamed about. Was it about me?”
I opened my eyes, trapped by his closeness. He was grim, restrained, as if whatever he felt had nowhere safe to go.
“I dreamed…” I shut my eyes, then forced the words out. “I dreamed you called me a slut. That you said I was promiscuous—that I liked being raped.”
Harrison went still. His pupils tightened, and his hand fell away as if he’d forgotten it was there.
I pushed at his chest. “So that’s what you really think.”
His silence fed everything I’d swallowed for years.
“I dream about it because you’ve said things like that for five years,” I said, the fear tipping into something sharp. “I remember every word. One day I’ll repay you.”
“Is that all you dreamed about?” he asked, too calm too fast. His fingers lifted, tracing the air near my face as if weighing my truth. “Sienna, you’re not good at lying.”
Guilt flickered, quick and unwanted. I forced a sneer. “Why would I lie? You’ve said those things so many times, of course I’d have a conditioned response.”
“In the dream,” he said precisely, “why would I say them? Are you still that afraid of me now?”
I didn’t understand why he was testing me.
“Then why did you humiliate me before?” I snapped. “Figure it out yourself.”
His mouth tightened. “Before, that was…” He paused, then lowered his voice. “Before, I was wrong. It won’t happen again.”
A belated apology—too late to change what it had carved into me.
“The reasons you humiliated me were ridiculous,” I said. “So dreaming you’d insult me for no reason is normal. I wasn’t lying. Now, Harrison, can you leave?”
Because if he stayed, if he kept peeling at me, I might lose control and tell him what I couldn’t afford to share.