Chapter 31 #2
A sudden, violent wave of nausea hit my gut. I wanted to say yes. But the silence that followed my hesitation was deafening.
"No," I whispered. "She hasn't said it."
"And you haven't told her?"
"No," I muttered, looking down.
Mia let out a long, frustrated breath. "So, let me get this straight. You’re about to quit your job, let this woman pay your parents' rent, and move into her mansion—effectively handing her every single string of your life—and neither of you has actually said the words?
Lex, that isn't a relationship. That’s a fucking acquisition. "
"It’s not like that!" I snapped. "She called me the woman she’s chosen to share her life with. How is that not love?"
"It’s possession, babe," Mia said, her eyes filled with a pity that made me want to scream.
"What happens when the honeymoon of her paying your bills wears off?
What happens when you want to leave and you realise you don't even have enough in your bank account for a bus ticket because you’ve spent months being her 'darling'? "
I felt truly, physically sick. The bubble from this morning was being poked with a thousand tiny needles. I groaned, shoving my hands into my hair, and slumped onto the crappy, beer-stained staff room sofa.
"I’m just trying to keep your head above water," Mia said softly, nudging my boot with hers. "You’re twenty-one, Lex. If you let her take over the fighting part, what’s left of you?"
"The part of me that isn't constantly exhausted?" I retorted, but it sounded pathetic. "You don't know what it's like to see my parents struggle while I’m stuck here earning ten pounds an hour."
"I know what it's like to be owned," Mia said quietly, and that shut me up faster than a slap.
She never talked about her past. "It feels like being a queen until you realise you’re just a piece on their board.
Even if she thinks she's doing it for your own good, Alex... she’s still the one moving the pieces.
Obsessed people don't make good partners—they make good jailers. "
Mia sighed, checking her watch. "Get your head straight. We’ve got a delivery coming in ten minutes and I need you on the floor."
I stayed on the sofa after she left, the silence suffocating. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out, my heart skipping a beat as her name lit up the screen.
Carrie: I have some work to do before University starts again, just so you know, but I’ll be using my home office so I won’t need to leave the house. I miss you, darling.
I stared at the word darling. This morning, it was a caress. Now, it looked like a tag on an exhibit.
I was used to being a total fucking disaster, but this was uncharted territory.
I felt like a fucking human yo-yo. It had been a couple of days since Mia hit me with that reality check—except it wasn't wasn’t a "hit," it was a fucking sledgehammer to the jaw.
The problem was, when I was actually with Carrie, the noise just…
stopped. Waking up to her softly kissing my forehead, my nose, or my lips made my heart do that stupid, fluttering thing.
She was so soft, so relaxed in those private hours—a side of Dr. Carter only I got to see before she put her armour back on for the world.
I had agreed to this. Hell, I had instigated it. From the second I saw her, I wanted her to fucking stand on my neck, and she had surpassed every expectation of what having a dominant woman in my life would be like. I loved it more than I ever thought I would.
Mia wasn’t entirely wrong—I was independent.
I didn’t want to be a plaything forever.
But I didn’t feel like one now. Carrie respected my drive.
She came from nothing too; she knew the grit it took to scrape pennies together just to keep the lights on.
She didn’t want to take that fire away from me.
I was the one who had said I wanted to stay in the bubble, right?
She’d never even mentioned me quitting before that.
Not even when I showed up with a black eye or a bleeding head because some prick at the bar couldn't handle his fucking emotions.
Those were the moments I expected her to try to forbid me from working, but she didn't. Instead, she just made it safer—picking me up in the early hours so I never had to walk home alone.
But now, I was overanalysing every move she made, and it was driving me fucking insane.
I was trying to figure out if this was real love, trying to read her eyes to see if she felt the same, but I was too much of a pussy to just ask.
On top of that, the guilt of doubting her was eating me alive.
I’d been quieter than usual, and I knew she’d noticed.
True to her word, she’d been buried in her home office for hours, leaving me just...
existing in her house, trying to avoid Richard like a bad smell.
He wasn’t a villain, just a fucking knobhead man-baby, and I didn’t have the mental energy to deal with him.
I wanted to slip into Carrie’s office, pester her, and be the brat I knew she loved to indulge, but I kept stopping myself.
It was like I was afraid to lean into the dynamic if the foundation was cracked.
That thought terrified me. I’d opened myself up to her in a way I never had with anyone. The fact that I’d broken all my own fucking rules—relying on someone, being emotionally vulnerable—made me feel physically fucking sick if it turned out this wasn't the "real" love I thought it was.
Then I argued with myself. I reminded myself how this powerful woman had put her life on hold when my Mum was in the hospital.
She was the one making sure my Dad ate and that I got some sleep.
She bought the TVs and the sofas, sure, but was that fucking control?
Or was it because my Mum mentioned wanting a TV in her room for her recovery and Carrie didn't even blink before making it happen?
She bought the sofas so Mum would be stable and comfortable on her bad days.
Even when she threatened to buy the whole fucking street just to prove a point, she was doing it to protect us.
She wanted my family—people who had worked themselves to the bone for nothing—to finally touch a bit of the world's riches.
That couldn't all be just possessive obsession... could it?
Fuck.
I’d been pacing her bedroom for an hour.
We’d had lunch, but Carrie had an unavoidable meeting; she kissed me softly and disappeared back into her office.
I felt fucking sick. I thought I needed to go home.
It was Thursday; I was back at work tomorrow, and Uni started Monday.
We needed a routine. I didn’t live here, and as much as she had told her brother I was her priority, my family was mine.
I needed to be there for Mum and make dinner for Dad.
Yet, the thought of Carrie providing for us still sent a thrill through me.
My Dad could actually fucking relax for once instead of working seven days a week.
My Mum could focus on her health instead of taking inventory of fucking barren kitchen cupboards, wondering how to make the food stretch another week.
I stripped out of the loungewear Carrie had given me, the silk feeling like a betrayal as it slid off my skin.
I pulled on my own jeans—the ones with the slightly frayed hem, not the expensive ones Carrie had bought—and a plain t-shirt from the bottom of my bag.
It smelled like my own washing powder, like my own fucking life, and for a second, it was a grounding comfort.
I wasn’t running away. I wasn’t. I was just... recalibrating. I needed to see if my brain still fucking functioned when it wasn't being clouded by her scent and her authority.
I packed my things with shaky hands and headed downstairs, my backpack feeling heavier than usual. I didn’t go to the front door. Instead, I sat on the bottom step of the staircase, my eyes glued to the heavy oak door on the left. Carrie’s office.
The silence of the house was fucking deafening.
I could have just slipped out; she was in a meeting, she might not have even noticed for an hour.
But I wasn't a fucking child, and I wasn't a coward.
I was going to tell her the truth. I needed to go home.
I needed to check on my parents, to be the person they depended on again.
That had been my role forever—the one who held everything together.
Besides, it was practical. Uni started Monday.
I had coursework to get through, and once we were back into the swing of things, she would be Dr. Carter again, lecturing in halls I would be sitting in.
Our timetables didn't match. The domestic bubble of the Christmas break was over.
It made sense to go back to the old routine. It was the logical, adult thing to do.
So why did I feel like I was about to jump off a fucking cliff?
I checked my watch. Minutes ticked by like hours. I was fucking terrified that if I stayed here much longer, the smell of the house and the memory of her hands on me would win, and I’d crawl back upstairs and wait for her like a good little pet.
Finally, the office door clicked. It swung open, and Carrie emerged, rubbing the bridge of her nose, looking every bit the high-powered academic. She looked up, her eyes instantly locking onto me sitting on the step with my bag at my feet.
The warmth that usually flooded her face when she saw me didn't stand a fucking chance.
It was eclipsed by a sharp, sudden stillness.
She didn't say a word; she just looked at my old jeans, then at the backpack, and finally, she met my eyes with a gaze so piercing I felt like she was reading my pulse from across the hallway.
"Alex," she said, her voice perfectly level—which was exactly how I knew she was worried. "What are you doing on the stairs?"