The floor-to-ceiling windows of Barrett's penthouse offered a breathtaking, glittering view of the Manhattan skyline. Blake stood before one, looking down at the river of headlights, and felt a profound sense of dislocation. She was in this world, but not of it. An imposter in a gilded cage.
She turned and walked into the massive walk-in closet. It was larger than her entire apartment. His suits were lined up in military precision on one side. On the other, a small section was reserved for her. It held a handful of dresses, lingerie, and shoes he'd bought for her. Things she would never be able to afford, and would never wear outside these walls.
The black dress was hanging by itself on a velvet hanger. It was a simple silk slip dress, brutally elegant and sinfully expensive. It clung to the body like a second skin.
She stripped off her cheap scrubs and pulled the dress over her head. The silk was cool and smooth against her skin. She looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger-her body alluring, her eyes empty. A perfectly crafted doll.
A soft beep from the living room announced the front door unlocking.
He was home.
Blake's spine straightened automatically. She walked out of the closet and stood in the middle of the vast living room, waiting. A product on display.
Barrett walked in, loosening his tie. He tossed his briefcase onto a leather armchair. His eyes found her immediately, a predator's gaze locking onto its prey. He scanned her from head to toe, his expression unreadable.
He walked toward her, stopping just inches away. He raised a hand, the rough pad of his thumb tracing the line of her collarbone. A shiver traced its path.
"It looks good," he said, his voice a low rumble. It wasn't a compliment. It was an appraisal.
Blake swallowed, forcing the words out. "My mother's physical therapy co-pays are due. I need you to make the next payment as per our agreement."
His eyes went cold. The flicker of heat she thought she'd seen was instantly extinguished. He dropped his hand as if she'd burned him.
"Money," he said, a humorless smirk twisting his lips. "It's always about money with you, isn't it?"
The injustice of his words stung like a whip. "It's part of our agreement," she shot back, her voice trembling with suppressed anger. "The contract you wrote."
The word "contract" was like a shard of ice in his gut. It was a reminder that this woman, whose defiance set his blood on fire, was supposed to be a simple transaction. A transaction he was failing to control. In a flash, he closed the distance between them. His hand clamped onto her jaw, fingers digging into her skin, forcing her to look up at him. His face was a mask of cold fury.
"Don't you ever forget who's paying your mother's medical bills," he hissed, his voice dangerously low. "Don't forget who pulled you out of that rundown clinic in Queens and gave you a spot at the best hospital in the country."
Tears of rage and humiliation pricked at her eyes. She refused to let them fall. She met his glare, her silence her only rebellion.
Her defiance seemed to fuel his anger. The frustration that had been simmering in him all day-over the meeting, over Gwyneth, over her-boiled over. He saw her tear-filled eyes, her trembling lip, and a destructive impulse seized him.
He crushed his mouth to hers.
The kiss was a punishment. He backed her up against the cold, unyielding glass of the window, the city lights a dizzying backdrop to his assault. His body pinned hers, hard and unforgiving. There was no tenderness, only a desperate, angry need to conquer, to possess, to erase the defiant look in her eyes.
Blake closed her eyes, a single tear escaping and tracing a hot path down her temple. She let him take what he wanted. It was the price of her mother's life. It was the price of her career. It was the price of everything.
Later, she lay tangled in the Egyptian cotton sheets of his king-sized bed, the silk dress pooled on the floor. Her body ached. He was in the shower, the sound of running water a steady, indifferent hiss from the en-suite bathroom.
She stared at the ceiling, feeling hollowed out.
A soft glow from the nightstand caught her eye. Barrett's phone, the one he used for personal calls, lit up with a new message.
She wasn't the type to snoop. She respected privacy, even his. But the message preview was impossible to ignore.
Gwyneth: Thank you for today. It was perfect. Good night.
The words were a fresh stab to her already bleeding heart. For Gwyneth, there were perfect days and sweet good-night texts. For Blake, there were angry, punishing encounters in the dark.
The bathroom door opened. Barrett emerged, a towel slung low on his hips, water droplets clinging to his chest. He saw her looking at his phone. His expression darkened instantly.
He snatched the phone off the nightstand. "What are you looking at?" he snarled. "You think you have the right to look at my phone?"
The accusation was so unfair, so baseless, that something inside Blake snapped. The last thread of her composure.
She threw back the covers and swung her legs out of bed, her movements jerky. She grabbed her scrubs from the floor and began pulling them on, her hands shaking.
"I'm leaving," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.
He didn't try to stop her. He just stood there, watching her, his jaw tight.
As she reached the bedroom door, she heard a sudden, violent crash behind her. She flinched, her hand on the doorknob, but didn't turn around. She walked out of the bedroom, through the silent, opulent apartment, and let herself out the front door.
Inside, Barrett stared at the shattered remains of the lamp he had swept off the nightstand. The shards of glass glittered on the dark wood floor. He wasn't angry about the phone. He wasn't angry at Gwyneth.
He was terrified by the dead, empty look he had seen in Blake's eyes. And that terrified him even more.
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