Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Bianca
“You've hardly touched your food, Bianca,” Marcus says, frowning at me.
He's been cold and distant since I came home. I'm not sure what I expected. Part of me wonders—how would he react if I told him where I really was? What would he do?
Was he this cold and distant before I left, and I’m only seeing it now?
I told him I needed at least a day or two before I went through with my plan to move in with him, and he agreed… quickly. Too quickly.
“I didn't spend a hundred pounds on a meal for you only to have you pick at it.”
“Well, then maybe you shouldn't question every calorie I put between my lips,” I snap back, and his brows rise before his eyes narrow on me.
“Is that the tone of voice you take with your future husband?” he says in a low drawl, reserved as always, cold and angry.
I swallow hard.
Since we sat down, he's suggested I not put butter on my bread, told the waiter to replace the breaded chicken on my salad with grilled chicken, decided I was having sparkling water instead of alcohol, and commented on how full I look.
“For someone who professes love and wants to marry me, your criticism has reached new bounds, Marcus.” I feel the iron in my voice.
The man brought me a skinny latte made with skim milk this morning. Skim milk. In a latte . A travesty.
I sniff and look away from him because this food looks terrible, and I'm starting to wonder what I ever fucking saw in Marcus Crowning.
My phone buzzes with a text, and my heart soars, but then—it’s just my mother.
I look away. I agreed to marry Marcus because he has the ability to put my mother and me in a much better position—and because my mother wanted me to, and I owe her everything for what she’s sacrificed.
I reasoned I would never find a more eligible suitor than a Crowning.
I’m doing it for her. I’ve seen how she struggled after my father’s passing.
“So, how have things been with you since I've been gone?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
“Fine,” he says. “Business as usual.” He gives me a cold smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “I made some further arrangements for the wedding. But I missed you.”
He leans across the table and squeezes my hand. A cold, unpleasant shiver rolls down my spine.
I never remember feeling like this with him before.
How deep did Ashland's conditioning of me go?
“Stop picking at your nails, Bianca.”
I jump and look down. I didn't even realize I was.
“Are you angry with me?” I ask, angry with him for treating me this way.
“Angry with you?” he says, his full lips turned downward. “Of course not, darling. Why would you get that idea?”
“You just seem short-tempered.”
“I'm worried,” he says, again smiling, but it’s cold. “You must promise me, though, that you will never do anything like that again. ”
His voice is a quiet threat as he reaches across the table, and his fingers encircle my wrist. It's painful, and I wince. When I try to pull away, he pulls harder.
“Listen to me, Bianca.” His voice drops even lower. “You came very close to making me look bad with your little tantrum.”
“I didn't have a?—”
“I'm speaking,” he snaps. “You will not interrupt me.”
How could I have allowed myself to be engaged to this man?
How can I do it now?
Everything Ashland told me is running through my mind.
He's going to kill you, Bianca. It's what he does.
I lift my chin and take a deep breath.
“Have you ever been married before, Marcus?”
“What?” he says, too late, too slow, caught off guard.
“I heard this crazy rumor,” I say, trying to pull my wrist away, but he still holds tight. “I heard that you’ve had some ex-girlfriends who… well, had some terrible things happen to them. Is that true?”
“Of course it isn't,” he says, but his grip tightens. “Where did you hear that from? ”
“Oh, just rumors,” I whisper. “I'm sorry, I don't—” Because he's hurting me now. Tears prick my eyes when he nearly crushes my wrist. It feels like it's going to break.
“Let go of me,” I hiss.
“Who told you that?”
“If it's not true, why are you so fucking defensive?”
“Language,” he says, and he twists my arm so hard that I scream—catching the attention of several people around us.
“Stop being so fucking dramatic,” he says, but he lets me go so people stop staring at us.
My heart is pounding in my chest.
I'm not going to marry this monster.
There has to be another way, a way out.
“Of course,” I say with a small smile, rubbing my wrist beneath the table. “I'll never do that again. And why would I ever think that you're anything but a good man?”
Fire rises in the back of my throat, and my belly churns with nausea. I'm lying with every single breath I have.
I reach for my glass and take a sip, acting like I’m shaken before I let it slip. It splashes across the table and onto my dress, and I leap from my seat, feigning shock and surprise.
“Oh gosh, I'm so sorry,” I stammer, hoping he'll believe me .
His eyes narrow at me.
“You should be more careful,” he says with a frown.
“It's fine. I'm going to step out and clean myself up a bit. I'll be right back.”
I grab my clutch and head toward the restroom. Two waiters are already at the table, helping to clean things up.
Marcus stands and… follows me.
I pretend I don’t see him, go into the bathroom, find an empty stall, lock the door, and take my phone out with trembling hands. I start searching.
Marcus Crowning wives. Marcus Crowning marriage.
Why haven't I done this before? Why did I wait till now?
Why have I been lying to myself?
Why did I think Ashland lied to me?
I see one thing after another. A mysterious death no one can explain. But when I click on the link, it's gone. An article that existed has been scrubbed from public view.
Oh god, I'm going to be sick.
I hear frantic pounding outside the stall door.
“Bianca, are you alright?”
How am I going to get away?
“I'm fine,” I say too loudly, my voice shaking.
He would take them, and when they no longer served him, he would get rid of them.
Just like me. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe next year—I don't know.
But Marcus doesn't like me and never has. He’s going to get rid of me just like he got rid of them.
I have to get away from him.
I flush, buying time, and when I open the door to the stall, Marcus is standing there.
“How did you open that?” I say. “It was locked.”
“You must have forgotten to lock it,” he says, lying and gaslighting me. How long has he been gaslighting me? “Wash your hands, Bianca,” he says, his lips in a thin line.
I walk to the sink and wash my hands with trembling fingers as I try to formulate a plan to get away.
“You've embarrassed me enough for one evening,” he says in a snarl. “Let's get you home and cleaned up.”
But I already felt his hands around my wrists—and it doesn’t take much to imagine those same hands around my neck.
He isn't bringing me home tonight, is he?
No . I have to get away from him.
I dry my hands and make my plan. I nod to him and walk out the exit .
“We're done eating for tonight. Let's go back to the car,” Marcus says, his hand gripping my wrist again.
To the left is the dining room, with patrons and the exit to the parking lot, where a valet has parked his car.
To the right is the kitchen. It's busy and bustling. I see a woman with her soft brown hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her eyes meet mine. She takes one look at Marcus, his hand on my wrist, and the panicked look on my face—and we have a silent conversation, woman to woman.
“ Help ,” I mouth to her silently. “ Please .”
Her eyes widen. She nods and lifts a huge butcher knife from the table in front of her, walks toward the refrigerator, then jerks her head for me to come.
My heart is beating so fast I’m dizzy, then I make my move. In seconds, I stomp on his foot with my heel. He howls and releases me. I feel the ghost of his hand on the back of my dress just as she steps in front of him, blocking his path. She holds the knife like a shield.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Get out of my way,” he snarls, but she's got the knife and isn’t going to let him get past her.
“Who the hell do you think—that's my?—”
“Oh, so sorry,” she says, and she actually puts her leg out and trips him.
Then I run .
There are people all around me—chefs, waitstaff, and delivery people. It's utter chaos in here, but I see the exit door and run toward it with everything I have.
I push my way to the exit.
A big, burly chef looks at me with concern.
“You alright, love?” he says quietly.
“ No .” I shake my head. “He's trying to hurt me. Please help.”
His eyes narrow to slits, and he blocks the doorway with his body.
“Go to the right,” he hisses. “There's an alleyway. It's where we throw the rubbish. He'll never see you there.”
With a loud bang, he shoves a huge stockpot to the ground. It clangs and crashes, metal on tile, hot stock sloshing over the sides.
“Get your hands off her!” somebody shouts from inside, because Marcus is trying to shove past the woman who blocked him.
I snatch a knife from a nearby counter and keep going. I can hear Marcus causing a commotion in the kitchen behind me.
“That's my fiancée! She’s unwell!” he shouts. “She cannot be left to her own devices!”
Fucking liar .
I still have my clutch. I reach for my phone with trembling hands and dial his number.
“Lass?”
“Ashland?” I break into a sob. “Help me. Please.”
“Where are you?” he asks.
“It's a little alleyway behind Tessa's Bistro. He's coming. He's going to take me. And I know he's—Ashland, please?—”
“Tell me what you see,” he says, his voice low and clear. Why is it so soothing to me?
“I'll be there in five minutes, Bianca. Do you have any weapons on you?”
“I have a knife.”
“Use it if you have to, lass. Stay calm. I'm on my way.”
I press my back against the cold brick wall of the alley, the knife shaking in my hand. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps, visible clouds in the frigid night air. I can hear Marcus inside the restaurant, shouting, his voice getting closer.