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Prologue
Nicole
“Shit!How the hell were you not paying attention?” I scream at the person standing in front of me. She’s an older lady, probably in her forties and her eyes have gone wide and her mouth hangs open in shock.
“I’m sorry! I really am. I have insurance, so I’m sure we can get this fixed.” The lady begins frantically searching for her insurance card. Whatever insurance she has, I know it won’t be enough.
The car I’m driving, the car she so nicely rear ended into with her Ford F150, is a 2019 Aston Martin DBS Superleggera Coupe. It’s my car, but it’s in my fiancé’s name. That also leaves another problem. Telling my fiancé, Mitchell Wakefield.
My hand moves to my temple, and I can feel the pounding inside my skull. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray that when I open them, this will be nothing but a nightmare. There’s no doubt I’ll be in some serious trouble over this. This woman has no idea the problems she now caused because she didn’t pay attention while driving.
Opening my eyes, I see the accident in front of me. “Fuck! He’s going to be so mad at me.” I realize I said this out loud when the lady answers me.
“Oh, I’m sure he will just be happy to know you’re okay,” she says sweetly. She doesn’t know my fiancé. If it was the Mitchell from five years ago, sure. He would have hugged me, kissed me, and probably babied me until he was sure I was alright. This lady has no clue how cruel the Mitchell of today can be.
Me and the lady who hit me, whose name I now know as Deanne, trade information before going on our way. Except I don’t want to go on my way. I get back in my car, then slide into the black leather seats and start up the car. I let out a huge sigh. I knew I should have just stayed home today. I had a feeling today was going to be a bad day, and this accident only confirmed it.
Now I have to face the music.
Tears start to form, and my lower lip trembles. I know what’s waiting for me at home: pain and regret. Nothing good will come of this.
* * *
Waiting for Mitch to come home and tell him is like waiting to hear sentencing from a judge for a crime you committed. You know what’s coming; you just don’t know how bad it’s going to be.
The entire ride home I thought about calling him to let him know just to give him some time to cool off. The only problem was that if he was in a meeting when he took the call, there would be repercussions for disturbing him with such terrible news. So, either way, it was a lose-lose situation for me.
What the hell happened to me? My life doesn’t feel likemylife anymore. I’m a shell of who I used to be. I dig the heel of my hand into my eyes. My head’s still pounding. Somewhere along the way, I gave up; I gave in to the pain and suffering. I let Mitch control every aspect of my life. It was never supposed to be like this.
From upstairs in our bedroom, I can hear the front door shut and Mitch talking loudly on the phone.
I look around our bedroom. I can’t really call it ours, I usually sleep alone in it. The room is huge, with dark gray walls decorated in black and white art and plush carpet dotted with espresso furniture. This room, which should be an oasis, is sterile and unwelcoming. None of the design decisions were my choice. Mitch got to have all the say in the colors, or lack thereof.
Our home isn’t a sprawling mansion, but it definitely says, “We have money.” This place is decorated like a museum. You can’t touch anything, only admire the money that went into it all.
Mitch already has plans to move once we marry. He wants to move into NYC, where we would live in a pretentious penthouse that takes up three entire floors. The heart of the city, the heart of where his company is. At the age of thirty-two, he’s already CEO of Wakefield Investments. His father, Michael Wakefield, decided to retire early.
As quietly as I can, I make my way downstairs and head towards his office. When I don’t hear him talking anymore, I gently knock on the door, waiting for permission to enter.
“Come in,” Mitch calls from inside.
Slowly, I open the door and send up a silent prayer. A prayer that he won’t be mad about the accident.
“Nicole. How are you doing?” He doesn’t even look at me while he talks to me. His eyes stay on his computer as I step up to the room. I turn and close the door behind me. I take a few steps in and then stop, leaving plenty of distance between us.
Mitch is a tall man. He’s six foot three, muscular, and feral. He has a mysterious and sexy whim about him. His dark brown hair is short on the sides and long on the top, but he always has it perfectly gelled back. Even as an asshole, he’s a good-looking asshole.
His office is massive. The ceiling is at least thirty feet high, and there are bookshelves built into the walls. The back wall behind his desk is basically one giant window, which overlooks our property. Well, his property and I guess mine by proxy. The office is stuffy and cold, just like the rest of the house. I hate having to be here in this office—and this house.
“Um, I need to talk to you about something. Something happened today.” My voice shrinks with each word.
Mitch’s head snaps up, and a crease forms between his brows as his eyes narrow. “What happened?” His voice is cold and distant. Any hope I had of him not being mad at me went out the window with that one question.
“Well, I was out, running some errands … I got rear ended. Some lady was texting while driving, and she didn’t see me stopped at the red light. The car’s in the garage, but it will need to be brought in. I have all her insurance information in my purse.” I spill everything I can as fast as I can. His eyes already gleam with rage. His fists curl on top of the desk.
“Did you get a police report?” Mitch growls.
“Well, no. She gave me her insurance information. It was a simple hit, and it doesn’t look like that much damage. Nothing the insurance can’t take care of, right? I mean, she ran into me.” My voice wavers. His brows pull to the center and a crease forms between them on his forehead. A redness creeps up his neck and I can hear a low growl emanating from him.