I hung up the phone.
Ian always knew exactly what I feared most. My mother was my only weakness.
I couldn't gamble her ashes on Ian's humanity. He had none.
There was a knock on the door. A servant delivered a change of clothes and dinner.
I had no appetite. Mechanically, I shed the heavy wedding gown.
Looking at myself in the mirror, wearing unfamiliar pajamas, I felt a wave of disorientation.
How was I supposed to explain this to Leland?
Tell him I had to go back, to the hell I had just escaped?
I couldn't. I wouldn't drag him into it.
The Wades and the Rileys were evenly matched. If I caused a direct conflict, it would do Leland no good.
I already owed him too much.
At four in the morning, while everyone slept, I quietly slipped out of the Riley estate.
I hailed a ride and gave the driver the address of Ian's private villa.
The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, eyes flicking with curiosity.
A young woman heading to a remote wealthy district in the dead of night wasn't exactly normal.
The car stopped in front of the villa. The massive iron gates slowly opened.
Lights burned in the living room. Ian sat on the sofa, the ashtray in front of him overflowing with cigarette butts.
He heard the footsteps and lifted his head.
His eyes were bloodshot, sharp and dark.
I stepped toward him, each step measured.
I expected anger, accusations, maybe even violence.
But there was none of that.
He simply stood, walked over, took off his suit jacket, and draped it over me.
"It's cold outside. How come you're dressed like that?" he said, his voice gentle, but a shiver ran down my spine.
He pulled me onto the sofa, then turned and went into the bathroom.
When he returned, he had a dry towel in his hands.
He sat beside me, carefully drying my hair.
"Your hair's wet. You'll catch a cold."
His fingertips brushed my scalp occasionally, carrying a faint, burning warmth.
I froze, sitting rigidly, too cautious to move.
I didn't know what game he was playing this time.
This calm before the storm was more terrifying than a direct hurricane.
"Margot," he suddenly spoke, his voice low and hoarse.
"I know why you're angry. I shouldn't have abandoned you at the wedding. I'm sorry."
He held my hand, pressing it to his lips.
"But Jemma… she has depression. I can't ignore her."
The same excuse as before.
In my last life, he had used Jemma's depression to hurt me again and again.
Looking into his falsely tender eyes, I felt nothing but revulsion.
"If you just behave, we can go back to how things were. Okay?" he asked as he pulled a document from under the coffee table and placed it in front of me.
"What's this?" I asked.
"A contract."
A victorious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Jemma's recently taken an interest in design. She wants to break into the field. But she has no foundation. She'll need someone backing her up."
My heart sank bit by bit.
"You have talent, Margot. You'll be her artist. You'll paint all the pieces for her upcoming collection."
He caressed my cheek.
"Once this collection launches, I'll arrange the best team of specialists abroad for your mother's surgery, and you can accompany her in the hospital."
He stroked my face again. "As long as you obey, she'll live a long life."
I couldn't risk my mother's life in the ICU on Ian's humanity. Any chance of survival meant I had to comply.
He wanted me to be Jemma's gun for hire, to use my talent to pave her way to stardom.
And I was supposed to feel grateful for it. Looking at his feigned tenderness, I lowered my eyes, hiding all my hatred.
"Okay," I found myself saying it.
