Chapter 8
My first sensation is the scent. Clean, crisp cotton that smells faintly of cedarwood and spices. It’s a scent I now know intimately, a scent that was pressed against my face, in my hair, on my skin…
My eyes fly open.
The world comes into focus slowly. The light is soft and gray, filtered through an overcast sky.
I’m not in my own bed. I’m cocooned in a cloud of impossibly soft sheets and a heavy duvet, the kind that feels like being submerged in tranquil water.
The bed is enormous, a king-sized island in an ocean of a room.
Then, the second sensation hits: a deep, profound ache.
It’s in every muscle, a soreness that speaks of being thoroughly used. But the epicenter of the ache is between my legs. A tender, swollen, throbbing reminder. I close my eyes, and the memories come flooding back, not in a gentle tide, but as a brutal, crashing wave.
His mouth on mine, bruising and possessive.
His fingers inside me, turning my rage into slick, desperate need.
His voice, a guttural litany of ownership against my ear as he slammed into me.
My own voice, screaming his name as I shattered.
A hot, crawling shame floods my body, so intense it’s a physical nausea.
I passed out. I came so hard, my body just…
shut down. With him still inside me. The thought is both horrifying and hideously arousing.
I can still feel the ghost of him, the memory of being stretched, filled, completely possessed.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the images away, but they are seared into my brain.
And the question, the one that has been lurking beneath the anger and the shame, screams to the surface.
Why me?
I am not the best lawyer in the city. I am—or rather I was—competent, passionate, and idealistic.
But there are hundreds of lawyers like me.
There are thousands of lawyers better than me, lawyers with more experience, more connections, more flexible morals.
Lawyers he wouldn't have had to break, because they were already bent.
So why go to such elaborate, monstrous lengths for me?
What did he see in me that was worth the intricate, cruel theater of my destruction?
The thought spirals, leaving me in confusion.
A sound from the adjoining room cuts through my thoughts, jolting me into high alert. The rhythmic hiss of a shower.
He’s here.
Panic, cold and sharp, lances through me.
He’s in the bathroom connected to this bedroom.
He’s naked, wet, and just a few feet away.
In a few minutes, that water will turn off.
He will emerge, wrapped in a towel, expecting…
what? For me to be lying here, waiting for him?
For round two? For a conversation about my new life as his whore-lawyer?
Fuck. That.
My body moves before my mind has fully caught up, propelled by a primal, animalistic need to flee.
I slide out of the bed, my muscles protesting with every movement.
My bare feet hit a floor so cold and smooth it feels like polished ice.
I’m naked. Utterly, vulnerably naked. The duvet falls away, and I see the faint, purplish marks on my hips where his hands gripped me. Branded me.
The shower is still running, a steady, mocking sound that serves as the countdown clock on my escape.
My clothes. Where are my clothes?
I scan the room. It’s as minimalist and sterile as the living area. A vast, empty space of gray, black, and chrome. There’s a single chair in the corner where my clothes are… folded.
He folded my clothes. My jacket, my trousers, my silk blouse—all neatly folded and placed on the chair. My underwear and bra are laid carefully on top. The intimacy of that small act is a violation worse than the sex. Bile rises in my throat.
I snatch them up, the fabric cool against my hot skin. My purse is on the floor beside the chair, my shoes placed neatly beside it. He thought of everything.
Dressing is a clumsy, frantic ordeal. My fingers feel thick and stupid as I fumble with the buttons on my blouse.
My body is trembling, a combination of adrenaline and lingering shock.
Every sound from the bathroom—a shift in the water pressure, a muffled thump—sends a fresh jolt of terror through me.
I don’t pull on my underwear. The thought of containing the tender, swollen flesh between my legs in constricting fabric is unbearable. I just need to get out.
I shove my feet into my heels, not bothering with the straps, and grab my purse.
I tiptoe to the bedroom door, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs.
I ease it open. The cavernous living room is empty, just as we left it.
The couch, the scene of my final, shuddering surrender, looks innocent in the pale morning light.
A single, heavy crystal glass, half-full of amber liquid, sits on a nearby table.
I have to cross the entire length of the penthouse to get to the elevator foyer.
It feels like a mile. Every step on the cold concrete floor echoes in the cathedral-like silence.
I keep expecting the sound of the shower to stop.
I keep expecting his voice to call my name, a calm command to come back.
But there is nothing. Just the hiss of the water and the frantic thumping of my own blood in my ears.
I reach the heavy front door and my hand closes around the cool, metal handle. It opens silently. I slip into the foyer, and the door clicks shut behind me. I don't look back. I jab the elevator button with a trembling finger.
The wait is an eternity. Every second stretches, thick with the possibility of his appearance. I imagine the door swinging open, imagine him standing there, naked and dripping, a cold smile on his face.
Ding.
The elevator doors slide open. I practically fall inside, stabbing the button for the lobby.
The doors close, encasing me in the mirrored box once more.
My reflection is a horror show. My face is pale and drawn, my eyes wide with a hunted look.
My lipstick is a faint, smeared memory, and there's a dark, distinct bruise blooming on my neck, just below my ear. His mark.
The ride down is a journey from one reality to another.
The same doorman from last night is on duty.
He stands at his post, his posture impeccable.
His eyes flicker to me as I emerge from the private elevator, a disheveled wreck at seven in the morning.
He takes in my wrinkled suit, my unstrapped shoe that I’m trying to subtly slip my foot back into, my wild hair.
His face remains a perfect, impassive mask.
He doesn't raise an eyebrow. He doesn't smirk.
He doesn't even show a flicker of surprise.
His lack of reaction is the most profound insult of all. It tells me everything I need to know. I’m not the first woman to stumble out of Jasper Wolfe’s penthouse looking like this in the early hours of the morning. I am not special. I am not unique. I am just another one.
He moves to the towering glass doors. "Have a pleasant day, miss," he says, his voice a smooth, professional murmur, as he holds the door open for me. He holds it open as if I’m a respected resident, not a piece of human wreckage fleeing the scene of her own debasement.
The cool, damp city air hits me like a slap in the face. It’s still drizzling, a fine mist that clings to my skin and my clothes. The sounds of traffic, of distant sirens, of a world that is waking up and going to work, are a jarring cacophony after the tomb-like silence of the penthouse.
I stumble to the curb, my body screaming in protest, my mind a war zone.
I need to get away. I need my own space.
I need to wash the last 24 hours off my skin, out of my memory.
I raise a hand, desperately trying to flag down a taxi.
The rain is starting to plaster my hair to my face.
My unstrapped shoe finally slips off my heel.
As I bend to fix it, my purse slips from my shoulder.
My phone makes a small, sharp sound against the pavement as it slides slightly out of the purse, thankfully not taking any damage.
Just as a yellow cab pulls to a stop in front of me, the screen lights up.
Jasper Wolfe.
My blood turns to ice. He knows. He knows I’m gone. He probably watched me leave on a security camera. He let me run. He gave me a head start. It’s all a fucking game.
Rage, pure and undiluted, supplants the fear. I yank my purse up from the ground, allowing the phone to be swallow deep within its depths, wrench open the cab door, and throw myself inside.
“Just drive,” I gasp to the driver, who gives me a concerned look in the rearview mirror. “Please. Just go.”
The cab pulls away from the curb, merging into the stream of morning traffic. I look back through the rain-streaked rear window. I can’t see the penthouse, but I can feel it. I can feel his eyes on me.
The ringing finally stops. I slump against the cracked vinyl of the backseat, my breath coming in ragged gusts. The cab smells like stale cigarette smoke and cheap air freshener. It’s the most comforting scent in the world right now. It smells real.
I survived. I escaped. The thought is so overwhelming I feel tears prickling at my eyes.
The journey back to my apartment is a slow, agonizing crawl through traffic.
With every block, Sapphire Heights grows smaller in the distance, and the crushing reality of my own life grows larger.
By the time the cab pulls up to my rundown building, the adrenaline has faded, leaving behind a profound, hollow exhaustion.
I pay the driver and get out, fumbling for my keys. My apartment, which had felt like a tomb just yesterday, now seems like the only sanctuary in the world. I just need to get inside, lock the door, and fall apart in private.
As I unlock my front door, a buzz vibrates from inside my purse. Feeling a sense of dread, I pull out my phone. A missed call from Jasper. And one new text message.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I don't want to read it. I don't want to know what he has to say. But another notification is right below it. A text from a number I haven’t seen in over a year, but a number I will never forget.
Marcus.
My ex-fiancé.
My finger hesitates, then I tap on Marcus’s message, a morbid curiosity I can’t explain.
Olivia, I heard what happened. It’s all over the legal blogs. I know you’re in trouble. I want you to know, I can help you. I can get you the best appeal lawyer, sort out the Bar investigation. Let’s put the past behind us. Just come back to me. We can fix this.
The words swim in front of my eyes. Fix this.
Come back to me. The sheer, condescending arrogance.
The opportunistic benevolence. To be the hero who swoops in and saves the poor, helpless little idealist who couldn’t hack it in the real world.
He wants me to crawl back to him, broken and grateful, so he can finally have the version of me he always wanted: the one who needs him.
Something inside me snaps.
A scream builds in my chest—a raw, primal sound of pure, undiluted fury. At Jasper’s manipulation. At Marcus’s pity. At my own fucking weakness and stupidity.
My arm cocks back, and I hurl my phone with all my strength. It flies across my small living room and smashes against the opposite wall with a sickening crack of plastic and glass. It clatters to the floor, the screen a spiderweb of shattered light, before finally going dark.
The silence that follows is absolute. I stand there in the middle of my room, my chest heaving, my arm still tingling from the force of the throw. My last link to the outside world, my only means of communication, is now a dead piece of junk on my floor.
The momentary release of the action fades instantly, replaced by a fresh wave of helpless despair. I just destroyed my own phone. Out of rage. Out of spite. It's the most childish, self-defeating thing I could have possibly done.
I slide down the wall, my legs giving out from under me. I bury my face in my hands, the rough fabric of my trousers scratching my skin.
And then, I let out a guttural, animal scream of pure, hopeless irritation, ripped from a place so deep inside me I didn’t know it existed.