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There’s no other way to rationalize this possessiveness.

None.

After a month of watching her from afar, of obsessing over her, I want her…to bear my children…so bad I can’t think straight.

This is nothing but an innate, basic desire.

To have a baby with her and no one else. To fuck it into her.

That’s all.

That’s why the calling is so intense. Once it’s a done deal, I’ll get bored of her. This pull to her will fade.

At least I know now.

“I’ll do anything.”

“Tell anyone about this conversation.” I put my face up in Griffith’s. He has to remember this moment. “And guess what happens?”

“We die.” Griffith lets out a pathetic sob.

“Correct.”

A blood vessel pops in one of his glistening eyes. I’ve been gripping him too hard, so I loosen my hold. Barely.

“They’ll start the bidding war on Topher’s sacrifice soon.”

Griffith bobs his head as much as my grip on him allows.

“You’re going to go out there and call Starlee over. You’ll tell her an anonymous buyer was on the line. That he told you to win no matter what.” His eyes widen. No one tells that woman what to do. No one tells her a faceless person will join the auction. No one except me. “I’ll be there to confirm that you ran it by me. That it’s okay.”

“Okay. Okay.”

Tick tock. Tick tock.

“Then you’ll start bidding. Once you do, you won’t stop, like theanonymous buyerasked you to.”

“Are you sure?” His quivering chin says what he can’t. The people in the room bid by the millions.

“You’re wasting my time,” I hiss. “I said you won’t stop, and you won’t fucking stop. Then you’ll go out the back, collectMiss Monroe. You’ll drive to the city for ten minutes, then turn around and drop her off at the front door of my house. Are we clear?”

Where she and I will be alone with Clara. Just until she deposits Ophelia in the cell. Then, Ophelia is mine.

After that, she’ll leave with the rest of the staff for the week to a hotel. I’ll text Andrea, my assistant, to get on it and arrange three drivers to take them to the city. Then I’ll text Clara and have her get everyone packed and ready to go.

I’m not sure why I want them gone for this first week. While I get time off, they should’ve stayed on the premises, working for me.

I just want them out.

“Yes.” The shade of his face becomes impossibly whiter and greener simultaneously. “Yes, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“Go.”

His eyes skate to the shelf where I placed his tray.

“I said, ‘Go.’” I grab him by the lapel of his black jacket, open the door, and toss him out into the kitchen, leaving his stupid tray behind.

I don’t lose my temper often.