Chapter 28
Mark watched with narrowed eyes as the bitch glided out of her apartment building’s parking lot, that smug tilt to her chin, her sunglasses gleaming like armor.
She drove that shiny, sleek Mercedes roadster like she belonged in it—like she’d earned it.
The very sight of her behind the wheel of something newer, flashier, and more expensive than his Jaguar made something primal coil and snap in his gut.
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned bone white. That damn car was just the beginning.
She looked cool. She looked confident. Like she was somebody now. Like she thought she’d won.
But Mark wasn’t done. Not even close.
He’d take her down so hard she wouldn’t know which way was up. He’d grind that smugness off her face, crush every illusion she had about her shiny new life, and remind her who the hell she was dealing with.
She’d forgotten who was in charge. But she was about to remember.
He followed her at a careful distance, watching as she made her way across town. Of course. She was headed to his enemy’s turf. That towering glass-and-steel skyrise. That bastard’s monument to stolen power.
Saif al-Sintra. The asshole who’d thrown Mark out of the very company he’d built from the ground up.
No, it wasn’t Overlock. That could wait. Mark had plans for them too. Plenty of plans. Legal threats. Leaks. Maybe something a little less legal. A little more... persuasive.
Sure, there had been a contract. Sure, he’d agreed to keep profit margins within a certain window in exchange for a payout and stock options. But that was then. That was before. Before the economy turned. Before the clients dried up. Before he got... distracted.
Two years. Maybe three. That wasn’t long in business terms.
He could’ve fixed it. He still could. If they’d just given him another chance. If that royal prick hadn’t swooped in with all his righteous fury and power suits and fake morality.
So what if he’d skipped a few meetings? So what if he’d skimmed a little off the top? A man deserved to enjoy his life—especially a man who’d built something. A few rounds of golf. A few afternoons with his mistress. Was that a crime?
But they’d treated him like garbage. Tossed him out like a washed-up loser.
And now—now—that woman. That secretary. That little nobody who used to fetch his coffee and pretend to take notes. She was in charge?
She wasn’t built for power. She was built for looking good in a pencil skirt and smiling when told to. Not making decisions. Not managing men. And definitely not running a company.
No. No, she wasn’t going to last. Not with him watching.
He would teach her. He’d educate her in the proper place of a woman.
Mark’s smile twisted, sickly and slow, as he licked his lips.
He wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to do yet—not the particulars. But it would be unforgettable. It would be thorough. And it would be... corrective.
She wouldn’t be strutting around in luxury cars and designer shoes when he was finished. She wouldn’t be brushing past him like he didn’t exist. She wouldn’t be smiling with that false confidence, pretending she was better than him.
No, he’d wipe that fake power right off her smile.
He’d take her apart, piece by perfect little piece, until she remembered what it meant to be afraid. Until she understood just how far a real man would go to remind a woman of her place.
And when she begged—when that proud, prissy mouth finally begged—maybe then, he’d consider being merciful.
Maybe.
But probably not.