Page 30 of His Verdict
His gaze is steady, his expression unreadable. “Don’t,” he says, his voice a low, quiet command that carries more weight than a shout. “Don’t ever disparage yourself like that again. Not to me.”
The admonishment is so unexpected it throws me off-balance. I expected a denial, a justification, maybe an insult. But a defense of my honor?From him?It’s a disorienting tactical move.
“I’m just asking for a definition, Jasper,” I say, my voice shaking slightly. “I think I’m owed that much. I sign my life away, and my reward is a new wardrobe and a home-cooked meal. You have to admit, the lines are a little blurred.”
“There are no lines, Olivia,” he says, his voice smooth as polished stone. “Not yet. We don’t need titles. We don’t need a definition for what this is right now.” He takes a step away from the counter, closing a small amount of the distance between us. “We are two adults. We are… involved. We have sex. It isexceptionally good sex. There is nothing wrong with that, and it does not require a label to justify it.”
He’s being so reasonable. So logical. He’s framing it as a modern, no-strings-attached arrangement between two consenting adults.
It's a beautiful, elegant lie.
Every instinct in my body screams that this is anything but simple, anything but casual. He’s just trying to manage my panic, to keep the wild animal he’s just captured from bolting again. In his mind, I can feel it, he has already decided. He’s just waiting for me to catch up. But if he says the words—you’re mine, I’ve chosen you—I will shatter, and he knows it.
So he offers me a palatable fiction instead.
I just stare at him, my mind a tangle of confusion and suspicion. I want to push, to demand more, but I don’t have the energy. And a small, cowardly part of me is relieved by his answer. It allows me to pretend, for a little while longer, that I have some semblance of agency. That this is a choice.
“So you’re just… cooking me dinner,” I say, the statement sounding stupid and flat.
“I am,” he agrees, a faint hint of a smile touching his lips. “And I find myself in need of a sous chef. The risotto requires constant stirring.” He gestures with his head toward the pan on the stove. “Unless you’d rather just watch?”
The invitation is another peace offering. Another attempt to draw me into his world, to normalize the insanity. A part of me wants to refuse, to stand here rooted to the spot in defiance. But defiance is exhausting. And the thought of just standinghere, watching him, feels even more like a surrender. At least helping feels like an action.
“Fine,” I say, the word clipped. I walk around the massive granite island, my heels clicking a sharp, reluctant rhythm. I am entering his space. Willingly.
I come to a stop beside him at the stove, the heat from the dormant burner a faint warmth against my side. He hands me a long wooden spoon.
“Just stir,” he says. “Slowly. Constantly.”
I take the spoon and begin to stir the mixture of rice and stock in the pan. The motion is simple, repetitive. I focus on it, on the scrape of the wood against the metal, on the creamy texture of the thickening rice. It’s something to do with my hands, something to focus my mind on other than the terrifying implications of my life.
And that’s when I see them.
On the far end of the counter, partially obscured by a ridiculously professional-looking block of knives, is a small, neat pile of my belongings. Not new things.Mythings. From my apartment. My worn, dog-eared copy ofPride and Prejudicethat I keep on my nightstand. The small, framed photo of my parents. My favorite coffee mug, the one with the chip on the rim that reads “Legally Blonde.”
My hand stops stirring. The spoon clatters against the side of the pan.
“What…” I whisper, my eyes locked on the pile. “What is that?”
Jasper turns, following my gaze. His expression doesn’t change. “That?” he says calmly. “That’s your stuff.”
“I can see that,” I say, my voice rising, gaining a sharp, panicked edge. “What is my stuff doinghere? In your apartment?”
He turns his full attention back to me, his face a mask of placid, infuriating logic. “I told you at the office, Olivia,” he says, his voice patient, as if explaining something to a child. “The firm provides corporate housing.”
The words hit me with the force of a physical blow.
A cold, creeping horror snakes its way up my spine. My apartment. My sanctuary. The one place that was still mine. He sent people in? Into my space? To paw through my belongings, to pick and choose the few sentimental items I’d be allowed to keep?
I back away from the stove, shaking my head. The spoon falls from my numb fingers, landing on the floor with a clatter. “No,” I say, the word a choked gasp. “No, you can’t. That’s my home. I have a lease. I have… things.”
“Your lease has been terminated,” he says, his voice flat and final. “The penalty was paid in full. Your landlord was quite accommodating. And the rest of your things are being moved into a secure, climate-controlled storage unit, the details of which my assistant will provide to you. I had them retrieve only the items I thought you might want immediately.”
Hehad thought.Hehad decided which parts of my life were worth keeping. The sheer, suffocating totality of his control is staggering.
“You son of a bitch,” I breathe, pure, unadulterated hatred giving me a renewed strength. I back away further, my legs bumping into the kitchen island, putting a solid barrier between us. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just… erase me.”
A flicker of irritation, the first real crack in his calm facade, crosses his face. His jaw tightens. “Don’t,” he warns, his voice taking on a hard edge. “We were having a good day, Olivia. Don’t ruin it.”