Chapter 4 - The Mask of Prestige|
The card felt heavy in my hand as I slipped it into my blazer pocket.
"He's an Assistant District Attorney, Ronin," I said softly, staring down at my scuffed black heels. "People believe him. He has connections with every precinct in the city."
"And I have the city," Ronin replied without a hint of arrogance. It was simply a fact.
He stood up, towering over the table, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "Go to my private office. Lock the door. Rest for an hour. Gideon will bring you lunch."
"I have work to finish—"
"Laurel," he interrupted, his voice dropping into that commanding register that admitted no argument. "Office. Now."
I didn't fight him. I walked down the carpeted hallway into his private sanctuary—a room lined with mahogany bookshelves, leather couches, and a private restroom. I locked the heavy oak door behind me, sank onto the plush sofa, and finally let the tears fall.
For six months, I had lived in a quiet nightmare. Preston had started small—critiquing my clothes, tracking my location, questioning why I worked late for a man like Ronin Calder. Then came the raised voices. Then the gripped wrists. Then last night, when I told him I wanted to break off the engagement, his hand had clamped down so hard on my arm I thought the bone would snap.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
May you like
Preston: I know you're at your desk. Answer me, Laurel. Don't make me come up there.
I squeezed my eyes shut, holding the phone against my chest as my stomach twisted into sickening knots.
