Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Forties at least.”
“Well, shit.” He lets out a long sigh. “And feeling every fucking year of it. But that’s not what this is.”
“Sure as hell seems like it. This is your chance to bag the young rich girl, right? But I am not going to roll over and let you have me, Stefano. I’ve worked too hard to just give up and become some mafia guy’s wife.” I’m breathing hard, struggling against my anger. All of this is so damn unfair I could scream. Now here he is, acting like he actually wants this nonsense, but I’m not going to make it easy for him. No way in hell.
His expression darkens as he slings his bag over his shoulder. “Whether you like it or not, this is happening. You want that blackmail to go away? You’ll walk down the aisle, say the vows, wear my ring, and let me shove my fucking tongue in your mouth while all your pretty little friends clap and cheer.”
“Screw you, asshole.” I seethe, hands curled into fists. “God, you don’t know a thing about me, you total bastard.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Charlotte. It’s pretty clear you’re some spoiled rich girl who doesn’t know how to follow orders.” He takes a step closer and my heart skips a beat. “But when you’re my wife, you’ll learn.”
My eyes go wide with shock. He stares at me hard. That first night together, I never got the sense he was in any way dangerous to me. Violent and terrifying, sure, but not the kind of man who would hurt me. He made it clear I could go whenever I wanted.
This is different. Stefano’s glare seems to promise something dark and vicious. Like he doesn’t give a damn what I want anymore. There’s no more getting on his knees and begging for my taste.
No, there’s only obedience.
“If you won’t get me out of it, I’ll figure this out myself.” I shoulder past him, although it’s like slamming my arm into a brick wall. It hurts and I have to bite my lip to keep from yelping at the pain.
“Good luck, princess,” he calls after me. “I look forward to seeing you in all white.”
Chapter 8
Charlie
Iwait for my grandfather’s breakfast routine to finish. It’s a little embarrassing, but I know better than to storm into his room twice in one week. Instead, I lurk outside his door, glowering at the floor and brooding on my shit luck, while the staff pretends like I’m not there.
None of this makes sense. Stefano should’ve been excited to find a way out of our marriage.
Instead, it was like he got pissed at the suggestion. Like he really does want to marry me.
But that big bastard only wants to own me. I’m betting now that he knows who I am and how much money my family has, he’s all about becoming just another Westbrook stooge.
And his precious Don ordered him to lock me down, like some old-school mafioso shit.
Bastard. My father’s probably cackling in his office right now. His little blackmail plan is going perfectly, or at least he probably thinks so.
There’s no way my family will ever let me fully inherit the Westbrook business empire while married to a man like Stefano.
Which is obviously my father’s plan.
Only my grandfather is somehow twisting this situation to his own ends.
I don’t know what’s worse. My father trying to ruin me with revenge porn, or my grandfather using it to get what he wants instead.
“You can go in now,” Emily whispers, holding the door open sheepishly for me. I thank her and stride inside, holding my head high. Grandfather doesn’t respect softness or meekness, and I know better than to go into this conversation holding back. I need all my armor shining and in place, and all my weapons fully sharpened and prepared.
Every conversation with my grandfather is like entering into a duel to the death.
He’s settling into his armchair with a tablet in his lap. The TV’s off now and he’s got glasses perched on the end of his nose. He’s frowning and tapping at the screen, trying to get his email to load and grumbling the whole time. I wait a second before walking over, pulling down the menu screen, and turning on his Wi-Fi.
“Ah, there we go,” he murmurs as his messages populate. “God, how I hate this devil’s machine.”
“That devil’s machine can beam TV shows straight into your face from electric impulses in the walls.”
“The devil always did love his miracles.” Grandfather adjusts his glasses, not looking at me. He moves through his emails quickly, pausing to respond to a few with agonizing finger jabs. It’s amazing that this man runs a billion-dollar multinational chemical corporation, but has trouble using his own tablet.
I can’t take it anymore. I’m on the verge of screaming when I finally break.