Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
I couldn't stay here any longer.
Everywhere I looked was dark luxury and power. It looked like him. It smelled like him. Even the air felt weighted with his presence, though he was nowhere to be seen.
Placed carefully on the nightstand next to me was a vintage amber glass bottle with a cork stopper and a little sign that read drink me.
Every single D.A.R.E after-school special taught me I should not be drinking liquids from strange bottles when I didn't know what they were or where they came from.
But this wasn't some random party. This was Artem's domain, and I already knew refusing his offerings came with consequences.
Ignoring the bottle, I sat up and was instantly hit with an intense wave of nausea and a sharp stab of pain through my temples.
Fuck it.
Either whatever was in the bottle would make this go away or it'd kill me, in which case the pain would stop.
Win-win.
I grabbed the bottle, pulled the cork out with my teeth and then tipped it back into my mouth, letting the acidic liquid drain straight down my throat.
It tasted like honey, herbs, and something that burned. Probably the hair of the rabid bitch who bit me.
Whatever it was, it worked.
My stomach settled, and the pain dulled enough that I could move around the suite.
There was no sign of Artem anywhere, but there was a large white paper shopping bag with "Nordstrom" printed in bold black letters left on the coffee table with a note.
– Mr. Ivanov,
I wasn't sure what style your companion preferred, so I bought a few. Whatever she does not want, please leave in the room and I will have it returned and the funds credited to your card.
– Mr. Kotts, the night manager.
I assumed I was the only companion he had last night. The thought of him leaving this room to go to a different room with another woman made the liquid I just swallowed sour in my gut.
It shouldn't have bothered me, but my skin crawled with something I refused to name as jealousy at the idea of him doing to someone else what he'd done to me.
Inside the bag were a few different pairs of pants and tops from St. John Collection, Lafayette 148 New York, and Akris Punto.
All in neutral shades.
There were even underwear and bras in the right sizes in impossibly soft lace and the smoothest silk I had ever felt.
My fingers trembled as I touched them. How did he know my sizes? Had he been watching me that closely?
The thought sent a shiver over my limbs—not entirely unpleasant, which terrified me more than the idea of being watched.
The note said I was supposed to take what I wanted and leave what I didn't, so Artem could be refunded.
After last night, I deserved it all, so I was taking it all.
He could afford it.
I called down to room service and ordered breakfast, including champagne and caviar.
My stomach twisted at the idea of eating or drinking either of those, but I didn’t order them for my enjoyment. Well, except for the enjoyment of adding them to his bill.
It may have been petty, but it was my way of regaining a little of the control I had lost the night before.
While I waited for my very expensive breakfast, I tried out the bathroom again, this time appreciating the water pressure with hot water. Stepping out of the shower, I felt amazing, warm and refreshed, with a renewed appreciation for heated towels.
Wearing my new wardrobe felt like more than just taking control of the situation with Artem. It felt like taking control of my life. The clothes weren’t flashy or overtly sexy or designed to stand out.
They were sleek and sophisticated perfection. They let me stand on my own feet. People would see past the clothes to the woman wearing them. They were perfect.
I didn't want the attention of a flashy wardrobe. I wanted to be seen for myself and taken seriously. By dressing like this, I felt like a woman who took control of her independence, who deserved to be respected and to be listened to.
Yet a voice in the back of my mind whispered that even this was his doing. He had selected these clothes—or at least paid for them.
Every one of these so-called choices and decisions were made within the boundaries he set. My chest tightened at the thought.
When breakfast came, I let in the room service guys and took the bill, adding a four-figure tip before handing it back with a smile.
I enjoyed my meal, picking at it mostly, but basking in the win.
I knew Artem might be pissed about the bill, he might demand I return the clothes, but something told me he wouldn't.
There was something in his eyes last night, something that told me he liked my defiance, so long as I eventually submitted.