Parker
The sharp buzz of my phone yanked me out of my sleep. I groaned, rolling over in bed, eyes still heavy with exhaustion. My body ached from a mix of too many drinks, too much dancing, and too much stress.
The events of last night came rushing back in fragments—dancing with my girls, that fine-ass man stepping to me, then the air shifting like a cold front hit the club when Shooter walked in. The look in his eyes. The way he dragged me out of there with just two words. I squeezed my eyes shut, inhaling deeply through my nose. I can’t believe this is my life now.
The phone kept ringing, vibrating on the nightstand like it had all the authority in the world. I reached for it without opening my eyes, knowing it was probably one of my friends calling to get the tea. But when I squinted at the screen, my stomach tightened.
Daddy.
A sigh pushed through my lips. Of course. He probably heard about last night. I hesitated before answering, already knowing how this conversation was about to go. “Hello?”
“You really thought I wouldn’t find out?”
His voice was cold, clipped. “What the hell were you doing at some bar last night, ?”
I exhaled, pushing myself up in bed, my back hitting the headboard. “Having a life, Daddy.”
“A life?”
His voice sharpened like a blade. “You’re a married woman now.”
A lump formed in my throat. There it was. The gut-punching truth I had been avoiding since the moment that man slid a ring onto my finger. I was really married. To Shooter fucking Mosley. My silence didn’t go unnoticed.
“My daughter, sneaking out of her husband’s home to go shake her ass,”
my father continued. “How do you think that looks?”
I scoffed, throwing my legs over the side of the bed. “Like I was enjoying my damn self for once.”
“You embarrassed yourself,”
he bit out. “Embarrassed me. And do you have any idea how furious Shooter was?”
My jaw clenched. “Oh, I have plenty of ideas.”
The tension from last night still lingered in my bones. The car ride home had been suffocating, thick with unspoken threats. The way he had looked at me in the kitchen, backing me into the counter, inhaling my scent like he was trying to brand me. I quivered at the thought.
“I don’t know what childish game you think you’re playing,”
my father said, voice low and dangerous. “But you will fall in line, .”
I shot up from the bed, pacing barefoot across the cool hardwood floors. “Or what?”
I challenged. “You’ll hand me off to another man like I’m a goddamn business deal?”
His silence was an answer in itself. My chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. “You don’t care about me,” I said, voice shaking. “You never have.”
A slow exhale came through the phone. “I do care about you, . That’s why I did what I did.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “You sold me.”
“I protected you,”
he corrected sharply. “Do you have any idea what kind of enemies you would have inherited if this marriage fell apart? If we broke our deal with the Mosleys?”
I stilled. “Shooter is a lot of things,” he continued, voice tight, “but he won’t let anything happen to you. And that’s more than I can say for anyone else in our world.”
My head throbbed with frustration. “I don’t need a protector. I need my freedom.”
“That was never an option,” he said.
And just like that, I felt the walls of my reality closing in on me. I was trapped. Caged. Bound to a man I didn’t want, in a life I never agreed to. I sucked in a sharp breath, blinking rapidly. “I have to go.”
“…”
I hung up. The phone slipped from my fingers, landing on the bed with a soft thud as I pressed my hands to my face. I barely had time to gather myself before a knock sounded at the door. Sharp. Impatient. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose before slowly exhaling. Of course, it was Shooter. His ass wouldn’t just be walking in this room ever since I’d hidden the key.
Pulling my robe off the chair, I slipped it over my nightgown, tying it snugly around my waist before padding over to the door. My fingers hesitated on the handle for a fraction of a second before I unlocked it and pulled it open.
Shooter stood on the other side, tall and imposing, his frame filling the doorway as he held a shopping bag. His piercing blue eyes dragged over me, slow and heavy, making my skin prickle. I stiffened, gripping the lapels of my robe tighter. He was fresh out of the shower, the scent of soap and cologne clinging to him as he adjusted the towel wrapped around his chiseled waist. Tattoos everywhere.
His gaze lifted from my body to my face, and something flickered in those cold, unreadable eyes. Then his lips parted. “Get dressed.”
His voice was low, rough. “We got a brunch to attend.”
I frowned. “Brunch?”
His head tilted, that slow, lazy blink of his making my stomach knot with unease. “Brunch,”
he repeated, handing me the shopping bag. “Where you smile, act like a good little wife, and don’t pull no stunts.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “And what if I don’t feel like playing the role today?”
Shooter exhaled through his nose, his head lowering slightly as his gaze locked onto mine with a dark amusement that sent a chill up my spine. “Oh, you gon’ play the role,”
he murmured, stepping closer, his presence filling the space between us like a shadow. “Unless you wanna find out what happens when you don’t.”
My pulse kicked up. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t touch me. But the weight of his warning wrapped around my throat like an invisible collar. I swallowed hard, my fingers curling into the sleeves of my robe. Shooter’s lips twitched, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Good girl,”
he murmured, voice dark and edged with something I couldn’t quite place. “Be ready in thirty.”
Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me standing there, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Good girl.
The way he said it crawled over my skin, lingered in my ears. I exhaled sharply, shaking off the unease creeping up my spine. Fuck him. Fuck this whole situation.
Brunch. A public performance where I had to pretend my world hadn’t been flipped upside down, where I had to sit beside a man I despised and let people believe we were a happy newlywed couple. My stomach turned at the thought.
I closed the bedroom door and peeked inside the shopping bag. I pulled out a white and gold Balmain dress. The realization sent a hot pulse of irritation through me. Of course, he’d pick shit out for me like I was some doll to dress up. Still, I had twenty minutes, and I wasn’t about to let him have another excuse to bark at me. I grabbed the dress, a pair of heels, and moved to get ready.
By the time I emerged from my room, I was flawless. Face beat. Edges laid. Dress hugging me in all the right places. If I had to play the part of a Mosley wife, I’d at least do it looking damn good. Shooter was waiting in the living room, dressed in a tailored all-black ensemble—black button-down, black slacks, AP gleaming on his wrist, Cuban shining around his neck. He had one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone as he scrolled, but the second I stepped into view, his blue eyes lifted.
They dragged from my heels up my legs, over my curves, lingering at my chest before meeting my gaze. Something flickered there. He slipped his phone into his pocket, taking a step toward me. “You look good, wifey,”
he murmured.
I rolled my eyes, brushing past him. “Let’s just get this over with.”
His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my wrist, stopping me mid-stride. I stiffened. “Watch that tone,”
he warned, voice low.
I turned slowly, meeting his gaze. “Or what?”
His grip tightened just enough to make a point. “Or we gon’ have a long fuckin’ day, ,”
he said smoothly, those sharp blue eyes slicing into me. “You wanna start it off on my bad side?”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t breathe. His smirk deepened, like he could feel my pulse kicking against his fingers. Then, just as easily as he grabbed me, he let go. “Let’s go, Mrs. Mosley.”
The way he said my name—his last name—made something in my stomach twist. I ignored it and followed him out the door.
The car ride was tense, silent except for the faint sound of rap music playing through the speakers. I kept my gaze fixed on the window, watching the city roll past, refusing to look in Shooter’s direction. But I could feel him watching me. I wasn’t sure what pissed me off more—the fact that he’d forced me into this shit or the fact that a part of me was aware of just how good he looked sitting there, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh, fingers adorned with expensive rings.
I shifted in my seat, arms crossed. “You can stop staring,”
I muttered.
Shooter chuckled, low and deep. “Who said I was?”
I side-eyed him. His smirk widened, and he shook his head, turning his attention back to the road.
The rest of the ride continued in silence, tension thick in the air between us. When we finally pulled up to the upscale restaurant, a valet was already waiting. Shooter barely put the car in park before stepping out, walking around to my side to open the door.
I hesitated for a beat before taking his outstretched hand, ignoring the way his fingers curled just a little too tightly around mine. He leaned in slightly as I stepped out, voice dropping to a quiet murmur only I could hear. “Behave.”
I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “We’ll see,”
Shooter smirked, his grip tightening for half a second before he released me. I smoothed my dress, inhaled deeply, and followed him inside.
The restaurant was filled with all the right people—powerful, wealthy, untouchable. Politicians, crime bosses, socialites. This wasn’t just brunch. This was a gathering. Shooter led me through the tables with an easy confidence, nodding at familiar faces, gripping hands in brief greetings. He was respected here. Feared. And I was on display. A few people whispered as we passed. I caught fragments of conversation.
“That’s the new Mosley wife?”
“She’s gorgeous. Wonder how she feels about Silas’s death.”
“Shooter’s different. That girl’s gonna have a time with him.”
Shooter pulled out my chair at a private table near the back, waiting until I was seated before lowering himself into the seat beside me. I forced a smile as drinks were poured, as conversations started, as my father greeted me with a proud nod across the table. I wanted to vomit but I played the role.
I smiled, laughed at the right moments, and let Shooter’s hand rest heavy on my thigh under the table. And as the afternoon wore on, one thing became painfully, undeniably clear. There was no escaping this. No waking up from this nightmare. I was really married to a Mosley.