Chapter 42

MADDISON

The dress I’m wearing is a long, flowing silver number that splits up the side of my leg, teasing a glimpse of the skin I’m not supposed to show outside of my intimate encounters at Sanctum. But if Jonathon wants me in this dress, who am I to deny him?

I prepare myself as he instructed—no shower, no moisturizer, just a touch-up of my makeup and a quick blow-dry to let my hair fall naturally down my back. Then, I step back into the small apartment where he’s waiting.

He’s a sight to behold, dressed in a sharp black suit, his facial hair neatly trimmed and styled around his jaw. His dark hair is slicked back.

In one hand, he’s holding a tumbler of what I’m sure is whisky, staring out at the city as it succumbs to the early evening sky. I don’t announce my presence, preferring to keep to myself—I’m not exactly looking forward to the rest of the night.

I know he has plans for me; I know he’s aware of them. And I can’t deny that I took matters into my own hands this morning, indulging in an orgasm.

But that’s just it—I shouldn’t have to ask for permission; I shouldn’t have to surrender the parts of me that make me who I am. But that’s what Jonathon wanted.

He wanted control over my pleasure. He negotiated a deal where I would never find pleasure with another man, promising to wait until I was ready to give that to him.

And I haven’t been ready—or rather, willing—in the months since I’ve arrived here. He catches sight of me in the window’s reflection, my dress shimmering in the last rays of the sun, alerting him to my presence.

He turns to face me, one eyebrow raised and a small, almost insignificant smirk on his face. It’s as if he’s thinking, “What a beautiful woman.”

But I’ve learned not to put words in his mouth. After all, he thinks what he thinks, and I’m rarely right in my assumptions.

For all I know, he could be plotting my murder tonight, or perhaps figuring out how to reveal that he knows what I think he knows.

“There’s something about silver on a slim and beautiful woman that does it for me,” he says, taking four measured steps toward me.

One. Two. Three. Four steps.

He’s standing in front of me now, his hand holding the whisky at chest height. My eyes dart to the glass, wondering if I should ask for a sip to brace myself for the evening ahead.

But I don’t dare ask for the one thing he hates me touching. Alcohol, drugs—they’re both off-limits for me.

“Thank you,” I murmur, waiting a beat too long to acknowledge his compliment.

He looks annoyed but steps into my personal space anyway, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close.

The cool glass presses against my shoulder blades, a welcome relief from the warmth of his embrace. I despise men touching me, especially him, but for some reason, I also enjoy it.

“We’ll be late for our reservation if we continue to stand here awkwardly,” he murmurs into my neck, sniffing me like a dog would a piece of meat.

He stiffens for a moment before releasing me. I step back too quickly for his liking.

“Let’s go,” he says, extending a hand toward me, his eyes a burning onyx.

I’m not sure what just happened or how I managed to upset him so much, but his sudden mood swing gives me a whiplash like never before.

His grip on my hand is tight and painful as he leads us past the kitchen toward the apartment door. I try to free my hand from his, but my efforts are in vain—my hand remains in his.

And it stays there all the way down to the ground level and into the restaurant, where he guides me to a secluded table hidden behind strategically placed plants.

The table offers privacy, yet the restaurant’s lively atmosphere is still palpable.

In front of me are floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto a small terrace, and beyond that, beautiful gardens teeming with wildlife and plants.

I’m squirming in my seat, feeling out of place in a dress that’s too glitzy for this kind of restaurant. I can’t help but notice that most of the women here are in simple black dresses, while mine feels like something a celebrity would wear on the red carpet.

The meal is served promptly and quietly. The food is divine, at least what I manage to eat, and the wine is even better. It’s surprising how the food outshines the modesty of the restaurant and its patrons.

Throughout the meal, Jonathon and I don’t exchange a single word. The silence is deafening. I only glance at him when he takes a deep breath, as if he’s about to say something, but he never does.

That’s how our meal ends. He stands up, clearly fed up with the silence, and signals me to follow him with a sharp snap of his fingers.

Just my luck, the one person I was hoping not to run into appears from a hidden hallway behind the reception desk.

My heart pounds as we briskly walk through the foyer toward the elevators. I can’t help but think that Asher has dressed up just to make things more difficult for me.

But when our eyes meet, there’s no sign of recognition in his, and he dismisses me as quickly as he looked at me.

I’m hurt, deeply hurt. After everything that happened this morning, he’s chosen to pretend he doesn’t know me. I step into the elevator, the pain throbbing in my chest for reasons I can’t comprehend.

“What’s wrong, kitten?” Jonathon asks, using the pet name I despise.

“Who’s covering me tonight?” I ask, trying to distract myself.

As he answers, I push thoughts of Asher, the hurt, and this morning out of my mind.

“No one,” Jonathon informs me.

“Are we going to work—” I start to ask, but he interrupts me, pushing me roughly against the back wall of the elevator.

He threads his hand into my hair on the left side, yanking my head into an awkward position to expose my neck.

His nose traces a line from my ear to my collarbone as he inhales deeply.

“Jonathon…”

“Maddison,” he says, using my real name. It’s a clear sign that I’ve angered him.

I whimper as pain shoots through my skull from his tight grip on my hair. His next words are whispered, but they’re terrifying enough to make my heart plummet.

“All evening, I’ve waited for these lips to tell me of your endeavors this morning, but it seems my sweet little kitten likes to play with fire after all.”

“Endeavors?” I stutter.

“Yes, kitten.”

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat causing pain all the way down.

I tremble in my heels as Jonathon steps back, looking at me with a menacing gaze. “You think you can just walk away from this?” he asks, his voice low and threatening.

“I… I didn’t mean to,” I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper.

Jonathon narrows his eyes. “Didn’t mean to?” He scoffs. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Tears well up in my eyes. “Please, Jonathon, I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Sorry isn’t good enough.”