Page 140 of My Ruthless Husband

Breaking the kiss, I draw in a shaky breath. “What are you doing?”

Damian’s eyes has a dark glint of satisfaction. He trails his fingers slowly down my spine, the touch so deliberate and intense that it sends shivers through me. He then slides his hand under the hem of my blouse, his thumb brushing against the bare skin of my lower back making me tremble with the electricity of his touch. “I think you know the answer to that, angel.”

“I need to go,” I say, blushing and trying to break free from his embrace. “I have to volunteer.”

Damian’s grip tightens. “Did you forget? You’re all mine for at least a week.”

“You were the one who jumped back into work first thing this morning!”

He tucks a stray curl behind my ear. “The London branch is facing issues and I had to handle it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t make up for it now.”

Without warning, he stands and lifts me effortlessly, setting me on his desk. His laptop and papers go tumbling to the floor with a swift sweep of his hand. He looks at me with a determined glint in his eyes. “I’ll rectify my mistake by fucking my wife right here.”

“No! I’m not doing this right now.” I blurt.

Damian arches an eyebrow. “Found a backbone while I was gone, wife?”

His taunt ignites a fierce anger in me. I shove him away with all my strength, successfully climbing off the desk and stepping back. Back stiff, I face him. “We had a deal. I stay with you and follow your rules so Summer is left alone. But just because I agreed not to run doesn’t mean I’m going to live like a shadow of myself, confined and stifled. I’m done existing in the margins of your life.”

He narrows his eyes. “One of the rules is to keep me satisfied.”

I meet his gaze with a defiant spark and tilt my head, my voice dripping with sweet sarcasm. “So tell me, Damian, do you want a mute, lifeless sex slave, or a living, breathing wife who actually has a voice and a life outside your bed?”

Damian’s expression remains unreadable. “Enough of the drama. If you’re finished, you know where the door is.” He turns back to his desk, clearly signaling that the conversation is over and he’s not interested in further discussion.

I feel a sharp sting in my chest. Is this really how he sees me? A mere inconvenience to be brushed aside? What else did I expect? It’s just another cruel reminder of how little I matter to him. This is how he really sees me—just a means to an end. He kisses me when it suits him, takes me to bed when it’s convenient, but when it comes to my feelings, he couldn’t care less.

I had come here to talk about Melissa’s attack last night, but now I’m not sure I can stand his presence for even a second longer. I turn away from him and head toward the door, determined to escape the stifling atmosphere.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Past

What is pain?

How much can a heart endure it before it shatters? They say the heart is resilient, a muscle built for strength, yet mine feels like it’s crumbling with every passing second.

It’s been ten long days since my father destroyed my trust in the most unforgiving way. Ten days since I was dragged here, sedated, my cheeks still stained with tears. Ten days since something deep inside me died, leaving a hollow shell behind. Ten days of mere survival, hooked to an IV drip because my father, hell-bent on controlling me, resorted to this after I refused to eat or drink.

The door to my art studio creaks open, its sound breaking the deep silence of midnight.

I step inside, and the air feels a touch warmer compared to the cold emptiness of my old bedroom. I’ve longed to be here during these endless days of confinement. I wanted this. I needed to create something. My sanity depended on it. And now, after what feels like an eternity, I’m finally here.

I can’t pretend I am here by chance because my every movement is monitored. Being here came with a price.

A bitter smile tugs at my lips. Who would have thought I’d have to negotiate with my own father just to stand in my art studio?

Who would have imagined my own father would exploit my fragile state, using it as leverage to force me into making a public appearance at my 21st birthday celebration tomorrow?

This place, my passion, my very essence, has been reduced to a transaction.

Thick drapes cover the large windows, deepening the darkness in the room. I don’t bother turning on the lights; the darkness feels strangely comforting. Instead, I pull back a curtain just enough to let the moonlight filter in, casting a soft, gentle glow that brings a touch of light to the space.

I glance around numbly at the shelves, my eyes drifting over the pots, jars, mugs, the scattered tools, and the half-finished sculptures that have been left behind since I went to college and couldn’t come back to finish it.

I cross the cold floor, my bare feet barely registering the chill. I shouldn’t be surprised. When your heart shatters like mine has, numbness becomes the only thing you can hold onto.

The loose fabric of my top hangs off my shoulder, reminding me of how much weight I’ve lost.

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