Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
She stuck to her story. Whatever lie she told him, it held. And now I wonder if the bastard's giving her shite about where she's been.
I pace the cabin and pull up my footage of her—only to realize the screen's gone black.
Why can't I see into her room anymore?
Panic slices through me, sharp and instant. I stab at the buttons, rewind the feed, and then I see her—glaring directly at the camera before yanking the damn thing down and pointing it at the empty room.
Goddamn it.
She's too smart for her own fucking good.
I narrow my eyes at the dead screen and shake my head. Clever lass thinks she's won, but that’s not the only way I have to watch her. And I don't give up that easily.
I look back at my last text to her. She read it but didn’t respond. She didn’t block me, and she didn’t tell Crowning what happened to her.
Does she need to see for herself, then? Does she need to watch him show his true colors before she'll believe me?
I blow out a breath and drag a hand over my shaved head. Fine. I know the ins and outs of her neighborhood like the back of my hand—I've been there so many times I could walk it blindfolded. And I happen to know there's an apartment available, half a block from where she lives.
I pack up my things, and I book it.
Chapter Eighteen
Bianca
“You've hardly touched your food, Bianca,” Marcus says, frowning at me.
He's been cold and distant since I came home. I'm not sure what I expected. Part of me wonders—how would he react if I told him where I really was? What would he do?
Was he this cold and distant before I left, and I’m only seeing it now?
I told him I needed at least a day or two before I went through with my plan to move in with him, and he agreed… quickly. Too quickly.
“I didn't spend a hundred pounds on a meal for you only to have you pick at it.”
“Well, then maybe you shouldn't question every calorie I put between my lips,” I snap back, and his brows rise before his eyes narrow on me.
“Is that the tone of voice you take with your future husband?” he says in a low drawl, reserved as always, cold and angry.
I swallow hard.
Since we sat down, he's suggested I not put butter on my bread, told the waiter to replace the breaded chicken on my salad with grilled chicken, decided I was having sparkling water instead of alcohol, and commented on how full I look.
“For someone who professes love and wants to marry me, your criticism has reached new bounds, Marcus.” I feel the iron in my voice.
The man brought me a skinny latte made with skim milk this morning. Skim milk. In a latte. A travesty.
I sniff and look away from him because this food looks terrible, and I'm starting to wonder what I ever fucking saw in Marcus Crowning.
My phone buzzes with a text, and my heart soars, but then—it’s just my mother.
I look away. I agreed to marry Marcus because he has the ability to put my mother and me in a much better position—and because my mother wanted me to, and I owe her everything for what she’s sacrificed.
I reasoned I would never find a more eligible suitor than a Crowning.
I’m doing it for her. I’ve seen how she struggled after my father’s passing.
“So, how have things been with you since I've been gone?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
“Fine,” he says. “Business as usual.” He gives me a cold smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “I made some further arrangements for the wedding. But I missed you.”
He leans across the table and squeezes my hand. A cold, unpleasant shiver rolls down my spine.
I never remember feeling like this with him before.
How deep did Ashland's conditioning of me go?
“Stop picking at your nails, Bianca.”
I jump and look down. I didn't even realize I was.
“Are you angry with me?” I ask, angry with him for treating me this way.
“Angry with you?” he says, his full lips turned downward. “Of course not, darling. Why would you get that idea?”
“You just seem short-tempered.”
“I'm worried,” he says, again smiling, but it’s cold. “You must promise me, though, that you will never do anything like that again.”
His voice is a quiet threat as he reaches across the table, and his fingers encircle my wrist. It's painful, and I wince. When I try to pull away, he pulls harder.
“Listen to me, Bianca.” His voice drops even lower. “You came very close to making me look bad with your little tantrum.”
“I didn't have a—”
“I'm speaking,” he snaps. “You will not interrupt me.”
How could I have allowed myself to be engaged to this man?
How can I do it now?