Page 47 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
Yep, he'd definitely been in the room while I'd been sleeping. The hairs on my forearms rise.
I scoot across the bed and snatch up the note.
Office. 9 am. Same conference room.
Wear this.
You're welcome!
That’s it? The note isn't signed, typical.
He’d been angry last night. Oh, there had been no outward sign of his fury... except for the flared nostrils. Oh yeah, and the vein throbbing at his temple.
What had he expected, eh?
That I’d throw myself at his feet and tell him how much I wanted him to kiss me, make love—no fuck—me? For that’s all it would be with this man. A complete, one-sided power struggle, which would end only one way. With my submission. He’d take me with no compromise, tear into me, and imprint himself in every one of my cells.
He’d possess me absolutely, mark me and change me forever; and there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it.
Just as I’d been unable to beat him at his own game. I may have started that little contest yesterday, had thought I could hold my own against him, but he had turned the tables again.
Like a good little soldier, I’d marched right back to his house, to my prison—a gilded cage where he can keep his bird captive.
My toes curl. My scalp tingles. His little bird. Why does the thought of bending to his will seem so tempting?
It has to be because I hate him, loathe the sight of him and everything he stands for. There’s a thin line between love and hate, after all, and surely, I am mistaking the signs of whatever it is that stretches between us. I have to get through the next few days, survive them as best as I can, and then I can walk away. Assuming he’ll let me go. Assuming there is something left of me that I can call my own.
I glance at the face of my phone, "8:20 am."
"Fuck, fuckity, fuck." I scoot out of bed so fast that I fall on my arse. "Damn."
I spring up and race for the shower. Only Sin-fucking-Sterling, douche-canoe of the first degree would pull a cheap shot like this.
Leaving me to make my way through rush hour traffic. How the hell am I going to get there by 9 am? No way could a car make it through the traffic, not that I have the money for a taxi. Public transport is my best bet. Hell.
Five minutes later, I'm out. I pick up the clothes, put them on, then survey myself in the mirror.
A pencil skirt that clings to my thighs and comes to below my knees. It is a respectable length, actually, but the cut…? Wow.
It enhances my curves, makes my voluptuous body seem almost… Sexy? The blouse has long sleeves that cover me all the way to the wrists, but it is made of lace. I prop my arm on my hip and my flesh peeks through the pattern.
It’s coquettish and erotic at the same time.
And the shoes… Okay, they are stilettos; but not very high, they're the right length needed to enhance the turn of my ankles. I look way too well put together. I seem different. Like someone who belongs here in this house, with him, under him. Stop it. I straighten my shoulders, grab my phone.
I’ve begun to recognize his little glances, the crease that appears between his eyebrows when he is pondering something, the tight curve of his arse, the tented stretch between his legs. Hell, if that was permanent resting position, then how would it look when he was aroused, huh? I gulp, smash my knees together. Don't go there. Not now. I hum to myself under my breath.
An old trick, to try and keep my mind occupied and out of the gutter… More precisely, out of Sinclair Sterling’s pants, which is where it would happily dwell given half a choice. The screen on my phone shows 8:35 am.
Oh, hell.I pull off the stilettos, shove them in my bag and put on my chucks. No way am I running to the tube in those things. I grab my phone and bag, race down the steps, and out of the door.
I race up the quiet street, my skirt hampering my progress. Bet he planned all of this, to test my resolve. What had he said? He wants to break me down mentally and emotionally, huh? Well, we’ll see Mr. Sterling.
Once I’m in the elevator, I change shoes. He doesn’t need to know. The doors open on the floor of the 7A offices.
I walk down the corridor, to the conference room I'd been to the last time I'd been here.
I pull out my phone. I'm five minutes late.
