13. Genevieve
Chapter thirteen
Genevieve
Gregory’s soft snores carried faintly down the hall, proof he was dead to the world upstairs. I should’ve felt safe in the quiet of my own home, but my skin prickled as though someone was watching me.
I busied myself at the sink, rinsing out a glass just for something to do, anything to steady the tremor in my hands. I just wanted a moment to feel normal, to breathe.
But nothing had felt normal since Reid had come back to ruin our lives and to take what he thought belonged to him.
I’d spent years trying to find something stable, something untouched by the ruin I’d inherited.
My family’s business had collapsed so fast it felt like the ground was ripped out from under me, my father dying alongside it.
I was barely twenty when I scrambled into PR work, desperate for a fresh start, determined to survive the wreckage and use whatever skills I had.
That’s how I found the Newmans… how I found him.
Reid Kaufman wasn’t supposed to matter. I was nobody; he was the brilliant son of a rising empire. And yet somehow, in the chaos of both our lives, he saw me, he made me feel seen.
For a while, I thought we could’ve carved out a simple life, something stable and predictable.
Reid had been my everything. And I’d been his. Just… in private. But no one knew that. To everyone else, I was simply the sweet family friend keeping his dying mother company.
We were never loud or obvious. But we were real. And losing him had gutted me.
When the truth about Jamie’s infidelity came out, when Reid was turned away by his father, his brother, the whole family he’d bled for… I had to let him go. I had no choice.
Gregory was the safe option. The right option. The option that offered the quiet life I’d convinced myself I needed. The one that would keep me from repeating my family’s ruin.
My fingers tightened around the glass as the water hit the bottom, loud in the quiet as I let it run.
I thought I’d get over him. I thought he’d get over me. But every time I closed my eyes I saw him. Every time I opened them and saw the life I pretended to love, every time I felt the hollow ache in my chest, every single time I laid my eyes on my son… all I could see… was him.
His mouth on mine, his touch burning my skin, our bodies finding each other, always in sync, always in tune, none of it disappeared. All it did was fester deep inside me, building in a way I couldn’t ignore, haunting me in a way his whispers always did.
And now that he was back, he was worse. Infiltrating my life, shifting my routines, destabilizing me in ways he saw fit. Hurting me because I had hurt him.
Now I was coordinating appearances for him.
Drafting press language. Reviewing statements.
The prodigal son returned, all clean lines and investor-ready charm.
And I was helping him sell it. Playing the part like a fool.
The more the days passed, the more the lines between past and present, truth and performance, blurred into something I couldn’t control.
I used to tell myself I had no choice. But now… now I couldn’t help but wonder if I ever did.
“How long until he finds out, do you think?”
My breath caught as my body flinched.
Behind me, Reid’s voice slid into the room, cutting my thoughts short. I felt like I needed to run. Felt like I was trapped in this moment, in this kitchen, this house, in this fabricated lie that was my life.
“That everything is pretend,” he murmured. “That every smile, every word, every breath you take around him is rehearsed from a life of lies you live behind.”
Slow, dangerous steps moved behind me and my pulse stumbled. I gripped the counter harder.
“That even now… even here… you think about me more than you think about him.”
I didn’t answer him. Because I had thought of him. Too many times and in too many ways.
My voice caught, but I forced it out, low. “Gregory’s upstairs.”
“And you’re down here,” he countered, already closer.
I felt the heat of him at my back before his hand flattened against the counter beside mine, caging me in. I couldn’t move without colliding with him. My chest rose and fell, shallow and frantic, as his other hand ghosted down my hip, over the thin fabric of my nightgown.
“Tell me you don’t still think about it,” he murmured.
I kept my eyes on the dark window over the sink, my reflection burning into my eyes. His gaze met mine, eyes hooded, dark, terrifyingly certain he knew the answer already.
One of my hands moved to finally turn off the running water, my fingers trembling over the knob. My knees buckled as his hand covered mine, twisting the valve shut.
“I don’t,” I forced out. The word barely left my mouth before the air shifted again. His fingers from his other hand found the hem of my nightgown, dragging it slowly up my thigh.
“Liar.”
My body betrayed me. I didn’t mean to arch back, my legs already parting for him. It just… happened. Almost like instinct or memory. My head leaning back against him despite me wanting to keep it straight.
He found the crook of my neck, breathing me in.
Then his hand slid higher, slower now, his movements measured and confident. Hunting for what he already knew he’d find. And when he reached it, when he felt that humiliating, shameful wet heat between my thighs, he stilled long enough for me to burn hotter for him.
I gripped the counter harder.
A low, cruel chuckle ghosted over my neck. “You’re soaked for me already, Vieve?” he whispered, exposing the swollen heat between my thighs before I felt his fingers pressing in, stretching me open like he had every right.
The words seared down my spine, and I hated… fucking hated how right they felt.
I bit down on my lip, desperate not to make a sound, but a gasp slipped out. It was broken, breathless and… pathetic. But his pace didn’t falter, his precision merciless.
I buckled against the counter, my balance faltering as he filled me up. “You know you can’t pretend with me.”
My nails dug into the countertop, searching for something to hold onto. The marble was cold, steady, but it wasn’t enough, not against the pace of his fingers sliding deeper, curling until my breath broke into pieces.
“Reid…” My whisper was barely a sound, trembling with everything I didn’t want him to hear.
He didn’t answer. Each slick thrust of his fingers echoed in the silence, obscene and wet, louder than my own breath. I tried to twist away, but he pressed me tighter to the counter, forcing me to hear every humiliating note of how my body welcomed him.
“Listen to yourself,” he whispered, lips grazing my ear. “Do you hear it? That’s not his. That’s mine.”
Shame burned hot down my spine. My body clenched around him like it knew the truth I wouldn’t admit aloud. Tears slipped out before I could stop them. “Please…” My voice cracked, pathetic.
“Please what?” he whispered against my skin, fingers driving deeper, curling slower, drawing out more obscene noises that made my face red.
“You can’t even close your legs,” he murmured, watching me fold. “Pathetic. Hungry for me, even now.”
Another sob clawed through my throat as another slick, humiliating squelch filled the air. I clamped my hand over my mouth, but he caught my wrist, dragging it down until the cry escaped, full, unmasked.
“No hiding.” His tone was lethal in its patience, his fingers never faltering, working me harder until I thought I’d break apart. “Not from me. Never from me.”
A raw and desperate cry broke free. My forehead dropped against the cold marble, the tears smearing across it as my hips betrayed me, rocking, searching for more even as my words failed, lifting into his hand as a deep chuckle surfaced from his throat.
“There it is… fuck, look at that.”
“Reid—” I tried again, broken, but it came out as a sob instead of a protest. My body wasn’t mine anymore; it was his. My hips moved against his hand, betraying me with every shameless grind, every desperate push for more.
His palm pressed down on my hip, forcing me wider, until I felt exposed in a way I couldn’t hide from. “That’s it,” he breathed, embarrassment flooding me as he watched. “Open wider. Just like that.”
I couldn’t hold it any longer. My body broke open around his hand, convulsing, clenching, my legs nearly giving out as I came hard, humiliatingly loud, soaking his hand with proof I couldn’t deny.
I collapsed against the counter, chest heaving, tears mixing with sweat as his hand slipped out of me. But he didn’t let me hide just yet.
Instead of letting me go, he caught my waist, his firm unyielding grip pushing me higher onto the counter like I weighed nothing. Cold stone pressed against my skin as he turned me onto my back, spreading me out beneath him.
His dark eyes locked on mine, his gaze all-consuming and obsessive… I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. The weight of that stare pinned me harder than his hands on my hips.
His jaw was tight, chest rising in measured control, but his hands betrayed him. Parting my legs, holding me open, claiming the view like it was already his.
My breath faltered as he leaned lower, closer, until the heat of his mouth ghosted over me.
The first stroke of his tongue was slow. My back arched hard, a gasp breaking loose, but he didn’t stop: he dragged it deeper, firmer, holding me there with his stare while his mouth devoured me.
I couldn’t escape it. The pull of his gaze was as relentless as the pace of his tongue, steady and brutal, pushing me higher and higher until my body shattered, convulsing against his mouth.
But he didn’t stop.
His grip on my thighs stayed firm, forcing me open wider as he kept going, drinking me in like my orgasm hadn’t been enough. Like nothing would ever be enough. Tears blurred my vision as another wave hit harder, ripping through me so violently I almost screamed.
Still his mouth moved, his eyes pinning mine to his. Every cry and tremor, every broken plea fell useless between us as he swallowed me whole, dragging me through orgasm after orgasm until my body was limp, trembling and ruined against the marble.
When he finally lifted his head, his lips were slick, his breath ragged, but his gaze was terrifyingly steady. He didn’t look at me like a man satisfied. The look instead resembled an animal staking his claim.
“I meant what I said, Vieve.” His hand pressed firm on my trembling stomach, pinning me in place as if to remind me I wasn’t done, not by a long shot.
“This,” he murmured, voice rough but controlled, “is just the start.”
My chest rose and fell, the hairs on my neck rising as his gaze stayed detached. There was no urgency, no tenderness—just pure, sheer, dark determination.
“This isn’t about me wanting you. This isn’t about love.
I’m going to break you, Vieve. I’m going to take every last thing you love, every last thing you’ve pretended to love…
” His thumb dragged over my trembling stomach, slow, possessive.
His eyes held mine, unblinking, watching as I trembled for him.
“Until there’s nothing left but me.”