Chapter 19 CRACKS
Wyatt's POV
She's still asleep when I wake up at 5 AM. I don't sleep much. I never have. My mind doesn't switch off the way normal people's do. It just keeps running and calculating and…that incident. Even in sleep, I'm working. But this morning, something makes me pause before I leave the bedroom.
She's curled on her side, facing away from me, the black silk sheets tangled around her waist. Her red hair fans across the pillow like something out of a painting, catching the thin grey light that's just beginning to shine through the windows. Her breathing is slow and deep. Like shes exhausted.
I did that.
The thought doesn't bring guilt. It never does. But something else prickles at the edge of my mind, something I can't name and don't want to. There are marks on her wrists from the cuffs. Faint pinkish lines that will fade later. There are marks on her neck from my hands. Her back carries the evidence of last night in bruises that are only just beginning to darken. She took everything I gave her.
Every humiliation. Every degradation. Every punishment. She took it all with those blue eyes full of fire and hatred and something else she doesn't know I can see. Something that looks dangerously like want. I turn away and walk to the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind me.
By the time I emerge, showered and dressed, she's awake. She's sitting on the edge of the bed wrapped in the sheet, her hair a mess, her eyes red-rimmed. When she sees me, her expression hardens immediately into that look she always wears around me. The one that's equal parts hatred and defiance and barely concealed fear. I find it fascinating. Most people who fear me don't bother with the defiance. They just fold. They just submit and look at the floor and give me whatever I want.
Not her.
'Get dressed,' I say. 'My driver takes you to work in forty-five minutes.'
'I don't have anything to change into. You only had one set of clothes sent over and I...' She stops, color flooding her cheeks. Last night's clothes are ruined. I ripped her blouse open. The skirt is somewhere on the floor.
I walk to the closet and pull out a bag I had placed there two days ago. I toss it onto the bed in front of her. She stares at it, then looks up at me.
'Open it,' I say flatly.
She reaches inside and pulls out clothes. More clothes. A week's worth at least, all in her size. Her expression shifts through several things at once. Surprise. Confusion. Something that might be gratitude but doesn't know if it's allowed to exist.
'I don't understand,' she says quietly. 'Why do you keep—'
'Because you're a reflection of me when you walk into that building,' I cut her off before she can finish that sentence. Before she can make this something it isn't. 'You're my assistant. You need to look the part.'
The gratitude in her eyes dies. Good.
‘Of course,' she says flatly.’
She gathers the clothes and disappears into the bathroom. I pour myself a coffee and stand by the windows, staring out at the city below me. My phone buzzes. I look at the screen and the irritation that shoots through me is just there…it's stronger than ever.
FATHER.
I set my coffee down and answer.
'What.'
'Good morning to you too, Wyatt.' My father's voice is dry, cultured, exactly as I remember it. The voice of a man who has never once in his life been denied anything he wanted. 'Your mother and I would like you to come to dinner on Sunday.'
'I'm busy Sunday.'
'You're always busy. Clear your schedule.' A pause. 'We have someone we'd like you to meet.'
Something tightens in my jaw. 'Who.'
'Patricia is back from London. Did you know? She arrived last week. Beautiful girl, Wyatt. She's grown up wonderfully. Her father and I have been talking and we think—'
'I'm not interested.'
'You haven't even met her properly as an adult—'
'I said I'm not interested.' My voice drops to the temperature of the room. 'Don't arrange things without consulting me first. You know how I feel about that.'
'And you know how we feel about you turning thirty-three without so much as a girlfriend to your name.' My father's voice hardens at the edges. 'This family has a reputation to maintain. There are business interests at stake. Your brother has been asking questions about the succession—'
'Tell Finn to mind his business.'
'Wyatt—'
'Sunday doesn't work. I'll call when I have a free evening.' I hang up before he can respond.
I stand there for a moment, the irritation humming through my veins. Finn. Of course Finn is involved in this. My brother has been circling the edges of our father's attention for years, waiting for any sign that I'm losing my grip on the empire I've spent my entire adult life building.
Patricia. I remember her vaguely. A girl who used to follow me around at family events, all pigtails and promises we made as children that meant nothing. The last I heard she was in London, studying something I don't care to know. Now she's back. The bathroom door opens and Constantine steps out.
She's dressed in the new clothes. Dark trousers, a deep burgundy blouse that does things to her figure I don't need to be noticing at 6:00 in the morning. Her hair is still damp, pulled back from her face. She has no makeup on, and without it she looks younger and softer. The bruise on her neck is visible, a dark something just above her collarbone.
My mark.
She sees me looking and tugs the collar of her blouse up slightly. The defiance in that small gesture makes something in my chest do something I don't examine.
'The driver will be downstairs in thirty minutes,' I say. 'Don't keep him waiting.'
She nods, picking up her bag. She moves toward the elevator without looking at me.
‘маленькая птичка.’ She stops, but doesn't turn around. Her back is rigid, her shoulders tight. ‘Sunday evening. Clear your schedule. You'll accompany me to a family dinner.’
That makes her turn around. Her expression is disbelief and something that's rapidly shifting into dread. 'A family dinner?'
'As my assistant. You'll take notes on business matters that are discussed and manage my correspondence during the evening.' The lie is smooth. And entirely unconvincing even to my own ears. I don't bring assistants to family dinners. I never have. But I'm not bringing her because I want company. I'm bringing her because Finn will be there. And the way my brother looked at her at the office last week…I noticed. I notice everything. The way his eyes tracked her across the lobby. The way he smiled when she stumbled with the files.
Mine.
'Yes, sir,' she says quietly.
'You'll wear something appropriate. Not the work clothes. Something...' I pause, the word I'm about to say feeling strange in my mouth. ‘Something nice.’
Her expression flickers. 'I don't have anything like that.'
'You will by Sunday.' I turn back to the window, dismissing her. 'Go.'
I hear the elevator doors open and close. I stand in the silence of my penthouse, coffee growing cold in my hand, and stare out at the city.
Sunday. My parents. Finn. Patricia.
And Constantine, wearing something nice, by my side. I tell myself it's strategic. I tell myself I'm not doing it because the thought of my brother looking at her again makes something feral and violent stir behind my ribs. I tell myself a lot of things these days.