Chapter 12 Phoenix
Phoenix
The look Mav gives me makes my heart ache. I think my question actually hurt him. There’s a small part of me—tiny—that revels in that pain.
It makes me feel like he’s mine just as much as I’m his.
But then the truth comes crashing against my mind, bringing me back to reality.
Under the table, Conrad’s phone slipped. I caught it in the dark, screen still bright.
The first thread I saw—his crude little exchange with Maverick about the “good little secretary,” the rewards and punishments—that barely registered. That’s our game, and I can live with it.
But curiosity is a vicious cat. I scrolled up and saw a group chat that I wasn’t in.
“How about something more interesting? Storm wants us to share her. That doesn’t work if she chooses one of us over the other.” … “Whoever she chooses wins.”
The bottom dropped out of me so fast my eyes watered. I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t. My teeth grazed him—just once—because the hurt needed somewhere to go.
Then I tucked the phone back against the chair leg like a secret I wished I could unknow, and I went on being his good girl.
They all feel this way about me, don’t they?
Conrad didn’t let those women touch him, though.
That has to mean something.
Maybe it was because I was under the table and it would have messed with his game, but I doubt it.
The way he talked to them might have sounded flirtatious to anyone who doesn’t know Conrad.
But I know him. I know all of them. How he spoke to them isn’t how they talk to women who interest them.
It’s not how they get those women to give them everything.
It’s how they manage women they want to back off.
Kind on the surface, a little sweet even, but dismissive.
When Con and I were kids, he explained it once.
Being hostile in the face of unwanted attention only draws more.
Either the women try harder to prove they’re “good enough,” or they make a scene.
Scenes mean headaches from their parents.
But if they’re sweet—borderline apologetic—and redirect to someone else, an available Titan or a visiting team, there’s no fallout.
I understand it. I don’t like it.
Giving in to the urge to rip out their extensions and claw out their eyes is more appealing, but I don’t know if I have that right.
He told them he had a girlfriend. He was talking about me…us. Is that what we are? Or did he just avoid labeling our relationship as anything else because it’s embarrassing?
Do I even have a right to be jealous?
I did, for the brief time Con and I dated…but now? Are we dating? Am I dating all of them? Can this be exclusive if there are four men? Is that fair to them? Any and all of them could date three other women and things would be…balanced.
Am I selfish for wanting all of them to myself?
Do I care?
Does it matter?
Because if that “bet” is real, if “whoever she chooses wins,” then choosing means losing everything.
Choosing becomes leaving. And the contract already has a deadline. I was never supposed to stay—just perform until the game ends in a year.
My mind races and my chest aches with the rejection I feel flowing like blood in my veins. I want to talk to them—all of them—and find out where they are, what they feel. If it’s possible that they feel more.
But they’re too busy trying to save their empire.
Con is already on the phone, tucking his cock back into his pants while talking to someone about price per square foot.
I’m not sure what to do, so I go to the wet bar, grab an ice-cold water to soothe the ache in my jaw, then pour Con another coffee.
I set it on the desk, and before I can step away, he catches my hand—laces his fingers with mine—then pulls me into his lap.
He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are on his screen, but he’s holding me.
While my heart is shattering with the truth of our lives being thrust back into my face, he’s giving me his time.
It’s all the attention he can give, and it reminds me of before.
The time we spent together when I thought I might be able to have him forever. How he always had to touch me, his hand at my waist, his arm over my shoulder, our fingers intertwined.
It made me feel cherished then. It does now, too, even if the situation is complicated and I don’t know where I stand—or how long I’ll be here.
I take what I can get.
I rest my head on his shoulder, close my eyes, and just breathe him in, soaking his warmth and the sense of safety that comes with his arms around me.
How long can I keep this going? I have to tell one of them about the messages soon.
I know Con is the right one to give the information to first. They’re all swamped, but if I tell Storm, he’ll go off on his own and kill someone—and he could get caught. I’d never forgive myself if he went to prison because of me.
Atticus is one crisis away from going on a rampage, and Mav has so much on his plate it’s pushing his insecurities to the surface. I can’t add to that. He’d want to fix it himself just to prove himself.
All three of them would turn it into a mission to hurt the people who dared to hurt me. Not because they care about me. It’s ownership. They see me as their property, and they protect what’s theirs.
No more, no less.
Con is different.
He’s cold and analytical. He’ll take control of the situation and make a plan, then hand out tasks that match the others’ skills. It’ll still add stress, but at least they won’t try to shoulder it alone or use it to prove a point.
So when? When do I tell him that not only does he have to save his empire but he has to rescue me from my own stupidity? Maybe it would be better to just give myself over to the anonymous caller—let them take me, use me, and abuse me however they see fit, so long as it’s just me.
There are plenty of women who’d love to take my place in the Titan’s bed. And based on the group chat, Con is already planning on someone needing to find my replacement.
“Princess? Where did you go?” Con whispers at my ear, his arms tightening around my body.
I hadn’t realized he was off the call.
“Nowhere. I’m…trying to figure out how I can help,” I say, and my gut twists at how easily the lie slips out.
Although technically, I’m trying to figure out how to help myself survive his rejection, so it’s not actually a lie.
“Help me grab these contracts. We’re moving to my father’s—no, my office. Somewhere I can work without interruption and give you all the punishments you’ve earned. And show you your new uniform.”
No, I definitely can’t tell him about the texts and calls now. Maybe tonight. Maybe if I take my punishment—and my orgasms—like a good girl, he’ll still want me, still keep me…despite the proof I’ve seen with my own eyes that I’m nothing more than a bet to him. A game to pass the time.
“New uniform?” I ask.
“Completely naked and ready for me at all times.” He pauses, head cocked to the side, studying me. “On second thought…”
He hooks a finger under the hem of my dress and drags it up to my hips, knuckles grazing my skin.
“Off,” he orders, voice low. I shuck it, heat licking up my throat.
He thumbs my bra strap, smirks, and leaves it twisted and useless.
“We’re not walking you like this through the lobby,” he adds, already palming the contracts. “Back hallway.”
He steers me through the staff door by the service corridor—cool air, bleach and linen in the vents.
I send a nervous glance up, wondering if Atticus is watching.
It looks like the cameras here aim for the intersections, though, leaving several blindspots.
I clock each as I shuffle along behind Con, trying to keep my arms at my sides like it doesn’t bother me to walking down the hall completely naked.
Anyone watching would only catch a quick flash of skin.
A nondescript door opens into an office antechamber—the area Mr. Masterson’s blonde assistant guarded faithfully—that now sits empty and barren. The bookshelves are bare, the desk stripped of everything but the Tiffany lamp. The desk is just as empty. Only a notepad with a message and a pen remain.
Mr. Masterson,
I took everything you told me and shipped it to the London office as directed.
Thank you for the severance package, sir. If the young Mr. Masterson needs an assistant, he need only call. I’ll happily fill in until he finds a suitable replacement.
— Margot.
“Motherfucker,” Con says, crumpling the page. “The son of a bitch planned this. He knew weeks ago and never gave us a heads-up.”
His face flushes, and something bigger than rage crosses his eyes. It’s gone too fast to be sure, but I think it’s hurt. He’s hurt that his father planned to set his own son up to fail.
Fuck him.
My heart kicks a steady staccato as my decision is made for me. I straighten and square my shoulders.
Fuck Mr. Masterson. Conrad’s father is the worst kind of man. The kind who isn’t loyal even to his family. I always knew he was an ass, but I thought he cared for his son, at least.
I thought that’s why he told me years ago I wasn’t good enough—and I believed him.
I already know I’m not good enough for Con, or any of the Titans for that matter, but his father would never understand why. It has nothing to do with my lack of net worth.
Eventually, I’ll have to leave. But not until I help prove to that sack of shit exactly how amazing Con and the others are—not because of their parents’ money and influence, but despite it.
“What can I do?” I demand.
“Nothing. I just have to—”
“No.” I step in front of Con, forcing him to look at me. “Your father doesn’t get to decide your value. He can dump obstacles in your path, and you’ll climb over them, because you’re Conrad Masterson—and you have something he doesn’t.”
“What’s that?”