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The woman who is destined to carry out this grand empire and be shown all the love and passion in every aspect of life is at home. Eating some rich lobster and mashed potatoes dinner, begging for extra butter and the sweetest dessert to appease her sweet tooth.
Yet I’m about to be Miss Dope Submissive for a few hours because Father doesn’t want me embarrassing his family name before the enemy.
Un-fucking-believable.
It makes my blood boil and my head pound, and before I realize it, I’m walking toward the door. Warren stops me before I can reach the knob.
“Warren.” I don’t want to fight him, but God, if I can’t get out of this place and get some air, I’ll succumb to my racing heart that’s panicking at how fucked all of this is.
Why am I in this predicament? All because I’m marked as some type of puppet? A valuable possession with a beating heart, worthy enough to be sold and plagued with a destiny I never fucking asked for.
It’s too much to grasp, and it drives me to the brink of insanity because this is only the beginning of my downfall.
The kindled spark of my demise.
The idea of death doesn’t frighten me. That’s the saddest part.
It’s living in this cycle of being used and abused until every speck of worth in my burning soul goes out like an extinguished flame.
With no chance of saving.
Before I can try to shake Warren’s grasp off my arm, I’m tugged forcibly, spun around, and pressed against the door. I’m expecting him to apprehend me to get what he wants, but I don’t predict his lips slamming into mine the next second.
My entire body grows rigid at the invasive touch. It only grows when I feel the capsule flow into my mouth and down my throat before I’m able to kick this man across the room. Coughing isn’t going to get that shit out, and I know trying to stick my hand down my throat will leave me ruining whatever designer attire this dress is.
Add the Cartier jewels at my wrists and fingers, and I’ll probably go into debt trying to replace the financial construction of this final look.
Defeat matched with pure disappointment has me narrowing my eyes at the man in question, who I’m normally on good terms with.
Not in this case and a few other instances where his obligation as my bodyguard outweighs the desire to protect me on all fucking levels.
My emotional and mental health can go fuck themselves.
“I fucking hate you.”
How do you describe one’s voice when they feel like the world’s betrayed them? What possible set of words can decipher how overwhelming all of this is for me?
I don’t realize how hurt I am until my vision is blurred, and I’m shaking in misery.
“Verena. You know I don’t?—”
“You think I want this?” I snap before he can try to put himself on some pedestal and make it seem like he has no choicebut to act. Unlike me, he has a fucking choice. He has millions in the bank account to secure him while he goes anywhere in the fucking world, not to be in the same orbit as my savior father.
Where am I supposed to go? Who am I supposed to trust?
“You of ALL people should know what I fucking want. You’ve seen what a fucked-up puppet I’ve been forced to become, all because my real fucking parents didn’t want me! Jeez, why couldn’t I have been aborted instead of dealing with this shit-ass life?”
“Verena… don’t?—”
“Stop calling me that!” I snap at him and point his way. “It’s either Miss Prescott or Gemini from this instant onward. Last time I checked, you worked for Mr. Prescott. Not his little distracting helper.”
He wants to argue, but he holds his word with the shut of his mouth.
Such a fucking puppet.
“That’s what pisses me off the most with all you men,” I growl and spin away, knowing I can’t stand to see his hurt expression if my words have any effect on him. “Love to toy with females’ emotions. Egg them on into thinking we’re more valuable than what our pussies have to offer, but you’re no different from these ruthless bastards, are you?”
My fists are trembling with rage, but I can’t go punching shit.
