Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“Or what?”
“You don’t want to know.”
I roll my eyes, trying to break the seriousness, but it doesn’t work. I know Tristan has something lingering underneath all that control coldness.
“Will you kick me out?”
He pauses for a long moment, and I know he’s weighing what to say next. “You’re not going anywhere, Lily. You need to come to terms with that.” He steps back, and I know he’s leaving now. He says it with such a finality that I partly believe him.
“Wait, like ever?” I shouldn’t engage in this. It doesn’t matter. I am getting out. He believes I’m stuck and that everything is under his control.
It doesn’t matter that I’m an adult. It never did. He was in full control after my father died. There was nowhere else for me to go. All of the money and assets were placed into a trust—not that we were ever crazy rich, but my dad did well for himself.
“We can discuss this later.”
“You always say that!” I shout. He pushes everything off.
“You’re the one who hasn’t been speaking.”
“Whatever,” I mutter, pushing my plate away.
I jump down from the high-top chair. I did my part today. Whenever Tristan is home, he wants to have breakfast together and often dinner too if he’s not working late or has an event.
“Lily,” he says my name gently.
“Don’t.” I don’t want to hear any more. It doesn’t matter. We’ve done this dance for a while now. “I have a busy day of doing nothing.”
“That’s not true, and if there is something you would really like to do, let me or—”
“Sasha,” I gasp as I say her name while holding a hand over my heart dramatically.
I can’t stand Sasha. She’s his personal assistant. Thinks she knows him better than anyone. Maybe she does, but the way she flaunts it gets under my skin. I really shouldn’t give a crap, but I do. I have this stupid urge to stomp my feet like a child and tell her he’s mine. It’s ridiculous, but it still lingers in my mind, nonetheless.
Tristan actually has two assistants. One handles things outside of the business, which is Sasha, a girl he grew up with. She wouldn’t have to work if she didn’t want to, but she was more than happy to jump on it with Tristan. She wants him. I know it, and I don’t know if Tristan does.
I don’t believe they have ever crossed that line, but who knows these days. With how cold and stiff Tristan appears, there have been times I wondered if he was asexual.
I don’t know if he allows her around me because he knows I won’t say anything about this kidnapping or because he knows she’d help him. Everyone should have a ride or die, but it can’t be a person you’re fucking or who wants to fuck you! Joey is his right hand. He works with him on business crap. He’s nice and has never bothered me, but I know he too will do what Tristan asks over me.
“Why do you say it that way?” Does he really not know? The man went to MIT. He’s supposed to be super smart.
“Never mind.” I turn and walk away. Sucker, I’m the one leaving first. He calls after me, but I keep walking.
I kick my bedroom door shut behind me hard enough to rattle the chandelier in the hallway. My bedroom looks like a tornado ripped through a designer showroom. The white Frette sheets are tangled and half dragged. Above the headboard, I’ve strung fairy lights that blink erratically, one strand already burned out.
Stacks of books form towers in random places that I’ve stolen from Tristan’s library, paperbacks with cracked spines, all of them open and abandoned mid-chapter because I can’t focus on anything anymore.
Dad’s photo sits in a silver frame on my desk, the only thing in this room that actually matters to me. It’s from some FBI ceremony, and he’s in full dress uniform, looking stern and proud, alive. I’ve positioned it deliberately, angled so he can see the chaos I’ve made of Tristan’s perfect space. He’d get a chuckle out of it.
I fall backward onto my bed. After a good twenty minutes of pouting, I make myself get up and change into workout clothes.
That’s the only way to burn off energy when you’re locked away. I roll my eyes—not that it does anything, but it feels nice. Sure, he’d let me go somewhere with armed guards. It wouldn’t be him coming with me. If anything, Tristan grows more and more distant from me. I don’t know how to fix it, and honestly, I’m not sure it’s worth it anymore.
At one time I could tell myself he was so protective because he cared for me. Now I wonder if his protectiveness is actually a way to exert control. It’s not in a hot sexy way either. I think it’s a mix of that and him wanting to do right by my dad.