Page 69 of Painter's Obsession

My body betrays me. Heat pools low in my stomach, and despite everything, I come. Like a fucking kid hitting puberty, I come undone, the humiliation and pain mingling into something I can’t control. My release is hot and sticky, staining the ground beneath me.

Ren notices. Of course, he notices. His movements slow, his smirk growing as he leans forward, his breath hot against my neck. “He beat you because you like this,” he drawls, the words like a blade cutting deeper than anything he’s done to my body.

He pulls out slowly, the absence of him leaving a raw, aching emptiness. Moving to the front, he kneels, scooping up the evidence of my betrayal with his fingers. Without hesitation, he presses it into my mouth. I thrash against him, but his hand clamps over my mouth, his strength absolute.

The taste overwhelms me—salty, bitter, disgusting. My stomach churns, threatening to revolt, but his voice cuts through the haze of disgust. “Swallow,” he commands, and I do because I can’t breathe, because there’s no other choice. I swallow, the humiliation burning its way down my throat.

“Good boy,” he says, his tone soft, mocking. He slaps me gently across the face, the motion almost tender, before standing. “Now I have some things to do. Behave.”

And with that, he walks away, leaving me alone in the darkness, chained to my shame.

Chapter Thirty Seven

Ren

Days later….

It’s been days since I went back to the studio. I needed to let my Thorn soak up the self-pity and self-hatred, to marinate in the stew of his own despair before I return to strip away whatever scraps of dignity he’s managed to cling to. He needs to be ripe for what’s next.

I glance at the portrait hanging in my office, a small, satisfied smile curling my lips. Byron’s eyes glare back at me from the canvas, a masterpiece painted in blood—literal blood, not pigment. His eyes burn with raw, unbridled anger and the pain I’ve so meticulously cultivated. The crimson strokes bleed into a chaotic swirl of dark shadows, capturing his torment. It hangs like a silent monument to my work, a reminder of my control.

Across from me, Mr. Bronson’s voice drones on, a low static in the background. He’s an abusive, steroid-pumped thug whothinks money can cleanse his sins. He wants to walk away with a slap on the wrist, and honestly? He will. That’s what I’m paid for. The rich keep my father’s firm alive, and their moral depravity keeps me entertained.

“Are you even listening?” Mr. Bronson snaps, his thick fingers drumming against my desk, his face reddened with frustration.

I tilt my head, allowing the practiced mask of civility to slip just a fraction. “Which part?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. “The one where you admit to beating your wife, or the one where you tell me how to do my job?”

His face contorts, veins bulging in his neck. “You arrogant son of a bitch,” he spits, leaning back in his chair with a sneer.

I brush an invisible speck of lint off my navy suit jacket, my movements slow, deliberate. “That I am,” I reply smoothly. “Because I’m good at what I do.” I motion between us with a flick of my finger. “And you wouldn’t be here if that weren’t the case.”

His nostrils flare, and I catch the faint, telltale residue of cocaine still clinging to his nose. Grabbing a tissue, I slide it across the desk toward him. “Maybe lay off the coke for a bit,” I suggest, my tone casual, almost amused. “And let me handle my job. Comply with the court order, the restraining order, and try not to make my life harder than it needs to be.”

The veins in his neck pulse, his steroid-enhanced rage barely contained. Snatching the tissue, he wipes his nose with a feigned air of dignity before tossing it aside. “Do what you have to do, but make this all go away.”

I smile at him with a slow, measured grin that I know will get under his skin. This isn’t going away—not the way he wants. I might be good at my job, but there’s a line even I won’t cross for scum like him. This is just theater. A stage to play my part and let him think he’s untouchable.

Sliding a manila folder toward him, I stand, signaling the end of our charade. “If there’s nothing else, then we’re done for today. I’ll see you at the next court date.”

He pushes back his chair with unnecessary force, snatching up the folder. “Sure,” he says mockingly, his tone dripping with disdain. “See you around, Sato.”

As the door slams shut, I press the intercom button. “Flores, when’s my next meeting?”

Her voice crackles through the line, punctuated by the sharp pop of gum. “Not until 1 p.m., but there’s a woman here to see you.”

I roll my eyes, the faintest twitch of annoyance breaking through. “What have I told you about chewing gum, Flores? Even with me, maintain professionalism.”

I don’t need to see her to know she’s rolling her eyes, probably twirling the phone cord around her fingers. “Got it, boss,” she replies flatly. “The woman says her name’s Sandra.”

Sandra. My interest piques. “Send her in.”

Moments later, a soft knock echoes through the room. “Come in,” I call, rising from my chair.

Flores steps inside first, her copper curls piled into a careless bun, her fitted black dress hugging her figure. But it’s Sandra who draws my attention. She steps into the office hesitantly, clutching her purse like a lifeline. Her floral dress is modest, her tan sandals worn, and her blonde hair falls loosely over her shoulders. She looks painfully out of place against the polished sterility of my office.

“Hi,” she murmurs, offering a timid wave.

“You can go, Flores. Thank you,” I say, catching the flicker of disdain in my assistant’s expression as she glances between Sandra and me before leaving.

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