Page 158 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Abby

How do I use the situation to my advantage?

Especially when all he has to do is order me in that dumb Dom voice of his, and I seem to rush to do his bidding.

It’s a question I’ve asked myself all day at work.

Given I now work for the alphahole, and not for Zara, it means I don’t have to drag myself out of bed before seven and take the tube to the office.

It means I can work in my yoga-pants, except for the hurried formal shirt I had to pull on, along with fixing my face and hair before a video conference call with a leading newspaper editor to pitch a big story about a day in the life of Cade 'the King' Kingston.

Still, I could keep my pajama-bottoms on and my thick unicorn socks, so I’m fine. The work is surprisingly fulfilling, and I have a lot of freedom to create unique ideas and implement them, which is amazing.

Not that I didn’t enjoy working for Zara, but she’s a type-A personality, like her brother, and has a very clear vision of how to manage PR for her clients.

Most of the time, she’s right, too; but it meant I was more of an implementer when I was on her team, rather than someone who designed the initiative. So, this is a welcome change.

In fact, working for Cade is like working for myself—he hasn’t given me any do’s and don’ts, and I’m not going to ask him for any parameters within which I need to work, either.

Which is a little dangerous, because I might end up committing to things he’s not interested in.

But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Nothing’s going to make me call him to discuss the framework of the PR strategy I’m putting in place for him.

Especially not, after that dictatorial command that I was going to marry him—not for real, of course.

I toss my head. What an asshole. Did he think I was going to fall in line and do what he said?

Not only commit to a Dom/ Sub relationship with him, but also pretend to fake marry him to help mend his reputation?

The former had me intrigued enough to explore it, but the latter?

The benefits are all for him. What’s in it for me, huh?

I’d become a laughingstock in the eyes of the world when we fake-divorce.

And if he thinks I’m going to agree to it, when he couldn’t even promise me exclusivity in our relationship?

He’s really taking me for granted. I rise to my feet, raise my arms above my head and stretch.

I’ve been sitting at my table since nine a.m. and haven’t even taken a break for lunch.

My stomach grumbles. I pull out the pin I used to hold up my hair for the earlier video conference, then turn and head toward the kitchen.

The doorbell rings, and I frown. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Especially not anyone who thinks they can come in unannounced. Tradesmen need to be buzzed in before they can enter. Maybe it’s a neighbor?

I head to the door and look through the peephole. The man standing there wears a delivery uniform. He also has a package in his hand. I guess a neighbor let him in.

“Delivery,” he calls out, confirming what I already guessed.

I open the door, and he holds out the package. I reach for it, and he pushes his way forward. The package falls from my hands, and I stumble back.

“What do you want?” I gasp.

The man smiles. He looks me up and down.

The look in his eyes is lascivious. I glance down at the yoga pants that cling to my curves.

At some point, I pulled off the jacket I wore for the meeting, and the sleeveless blouse I wore underneath is transparent enough so the outline of my bra is visible.

I glance up to find the man licking his lips.

It feels like bugs are crawling under my skin.

My heart slams into my ribcage. He moves toward me, and I take a few steps back.

"Wh...who are you?"

“Don’t play dumb. You know who I am.”

The blood drains from my face. “Are...are you the one who messaged me on my phone all those months ago?”

Even before he nods, I know he is. My heart somersaults into my throat. My stomach seems to bottom out. "Wh-what do you want?” I take a step back, trying to put distance between us only, he moves forward.

"How can you ask me that question?” His smile widens. “After all the messages we’ve exchanged over the years…"

My pulse booms at my temples. “I never messaged you back, you creep.”

“Is that anyway to speak to your future husband?”

“Future husband?” I swallow. “You’re crazy.”

“Tell that to your father; he promised you to me.”

“My father has no say in my future. I’ve severed all links to him.”

“Then he won’t be here to help you, will he?”

“Leave, before I c-call the cops.”

“You know you won’t. You may have left the mafia, but you’re well aware calling the cops will lead right back to your father, and possibly, endanger his businesses.”

He’s right. Being suspicious about cops is too ingrained in my blood. I glance about the room, then back at him.

“I... I’ll complain to my father. He won’t be happy about you threatening me,” I burst out.

“You just told me you severed all ties with him.”

My stomach heaves. My guts churn. No, no, no, this can’t be happening.

Why wasn’t I more careful before I opened the door?

You’d think being born into a mafia family would’ve made me more careful about trusting strangers; apparently, cutting all ties with them lulled me into a false sense of security.

That’s the only explanation for how I could have walked into this

He takes a step forward, and I slide back.

Sweat pools under my armpits, and my guts churn.

This can’t be happening. I left all this behind when I left the mafia.

It’s one of the reasons I turned my back on my family.

It’s why I cut ties with them. Why I haven’t contacted them since I left.

Why I won’t dare call my father for help.

He’s right, I have no one to turn to. No one.

He must see the despair on my features, for his face breaks into a smile.

It’s an almost pleasant smile that makes him look far younger than his years.

He’s only a few years older than me, probably.

And he almost has an innocent face, except for his eyes.

The manic glint in them confirms he’s not a rational man.

I take a step back, another, then pivot and race toward my bedroom.

Only I trip over the carpet, fall, and bang my forehead against the coffee table.

Pain shoots through my head. Flashes of light dot my vision.

I manage to maneuver my body so I fall on my back.

I lay there, winded. Specks of black flicker at the corners of my eyes.

Footsteps approach me, then the stranger’s visage fills my line of sight.

He looms over me, and fear crackles across my nerve-endings.

I try to push myself up, but my arms and legs don’t seem to work.

He drags his gaze across my breasts, down my waist, between my legs to my feet then back to my face. "You want me, don’t you, Abigail? It’s why you’re laid out prone in front of me."

I shake my head, try to speak, but a ball of terror clogs my throat. I try to breathe, but my lungs burn.

His lips turn up in a smile.

"I was born to belong to you, Abigail. And you to me. You know that, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t. And you saying it aloud is not going to make it true.”

He wipes the smile off his face. “Enough of this talking.” He reaches for me, but I evade him.

"Don’t touch me." I manage to force the words out from between my numb lips.

His features seem to crumple. That crazed look returns to his eyes. "That wasn’t very nice, sweet Abigail. I guess I have work to do to convince you to fall in love with me."

"You are deluded," I spit out.

"Maybe. But you need me."

"No, I don’t." I swallow.

"I’m going to change your mind, you’ll see." He straightens and pulls on the cuffs of his shirt. He rearranges his features, and that demented look I saw in his eyes disappears. Once again, he wears that pleasant expression I glimpsed through the peephole.

"Until next time, my dear. I promise we’ll meet again when I’m worthy of you. I’m going to make you so happy, my beloved." He blows me a kiss, then walks off into the apartment. A few seconds later I hear the rear door of the kitchen slide open, then his footsteps clatter down the fire exit.

I stay there, unable to move, unable to understand what just happened.

He left? Just like that? And he didn’t touch me.

A tear slides out- from the corner of my eye.

I’m fine. I’m okay. Another tear squeezes out.

I swallow down the ball of emotion in my throat.

I’m safe. I’m safe. Nothing happened. I’m safe.

I push myself up to my feet and sway. My head hurts. My forehead throbs. My shoulder protests. I spot the coffee table that leans drunkenly on its side, and my knees threaten to give out again. Oh, god; oh, my god.

He didn’t touch me, but the way he looked at me—as if he’d jerked himself off. The next time he sees me, he’s not going to let me off that easily.

My skin crawls. An itching sensation burns its way through my blood. I half-limp, half-stumble toward the bathroom, then head straight toward the shower cubicle.

I wrench the door open, almost fall inside, and turn on the shower.

I flip the dial until the water is hot enough for steam to rise from it.

I step under the stream and sink to the floor.

I bring my legs up, wrap my arms about my calves, and bury my head between my knees.

I’m okay, I’m okay. The water pours over me, but I can’t stop trembling.

Why am I so cold? Why does it feel like I’ll never be able to wash off the dirty feeling that clings to me?

Another shiver spirals through my blood. You’re okay. You will be okay. You’re—

"Abby! Sparrow, are you okay?"