Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 75783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
After I shower and change into some athletic shorts and a T-shirt, I walk into the kitchen to find Harper sitting in loungewear, doodling in her sketch pad while eating cereal. She looks over at me and doesn’t say anything. She and I have barely said two words to each other since I destroyed the bouquet in her office.
For once, I’m lost for words. A part of me wants to continue my torment of her, making her squirm and miserable while we work together. It brings me such joy. I just can’t bring myself to do that with her at the moment.
“I know it’s the weekend, but that doesn’t mean you have the day off,” I say, grabbing my protein powder from the cabinet and putting together a shake before my run.
“So I don’t get a single day off?” Harper asks, dropping her spoon in the bowl.
“You’ll get off when I don’t need you,” I say, pulling out my phone and texting her over a list of tasks to complete. “I’ll be gone for a couple of hours, and I want all of these done by the time I’m back.”
Harper rolls her eyes and folds up her sketch pad before dropping the bowl in the sink and heading to her room to get dressed for the day.
I head out of the penthouse, knowing she’ll be busy for at least a few hours while I try to vent some of my frustrations on my run. It’s hot and humid, which makes every movement even more punishing. That’s exactly what I want right now.
I move as quickly as I can, feeling the burning in my muscles as I move back and forth rhythmically, trying to keep the same pace as I climb steep hills and wind through the streets.
All I can think about is this deal with Malik. My frustration has grown ever since we met him at the nightclub, and this anger is threatening to consume me entirely. If I can’t do something about it, I’m going to implode.
Why Malik of all people? There’s plenty of other people in the game with men just as capable as Malik’s. My dad knows who Malik is. He knows what selling Harper to him is going to be like.
Malik is cruel, and so is everyone he surrounds himself with. All of them are brutal and maniacal with their women. They look at them as objects to own and trade between each other. I’ve heard plenty of rumors about their wives showing up bruised and battered, punished for the smallest mistakes they make.
How could Diana approve of him handing her over like this? I know she doesn’t care for Harper’s appearance, but she clearly has no love for her daughter at all.
I wish I could spare Harper from this in some way, but I have no idea how. It seems hopeless. I don’t even know why I care so much about it. Sure, Harper is beautiful, and I like fucking her. But I need to focus on my business. I can’t focus on something I have absolutely no control over. I can’t let it keep getting to me like this.
But even when I try to force this thought out of my mind, I imagine her being handed over to a monster like Malik, and I just can’t let it happen. That’s a reality I refuse to live in.
When I’ve had enough torturing myself, I go back to the penthouse and hop in the shower. I let the cold water wash over me, cooling down my virtually overheated limbs as the water massages my aching muscles.
The shower did nothing to help me calm down, which isn’t that surprising. Nothing’s been able to.
I towel off and get dressed, storming through the penthouse in search of Harper to make sure she’s done everything I asked of her. I wasn’t gone that long, so it seems nearly impossible that she got everything done. That might play perfectly into my hands.
I find her in her room, dressed in more professional work attire, sitting on her bed with a sketch pad in her lap. I cross my arms when I look at her, shaking my head.
“Are you kidding me? Did you just completely ignore everything I told you to do?” I ask, slamming the door as I make my way inside.
Harper looks up at me with annoyance in her eyes, standing up and dropping the sketch pad on the bed before walking out of the room. I follow her as she makes her way into my bedroom, opening my closet door and showing off my newly laundered clothes that she had delivered from the dry cleaner.
“Item number one,” she says dramatically as she points to the finished task. She immediately leads me to my home office, where I have a brand-new mouse and ergonomic keyboard both already set up in front of the desk. “Item number two.”