Married to a powerful businessman feared all-over Portland, Mia Kingston has a reputation to uphold. As the CEO of MK, her own lingerie brand, everyone believes she has everything, including the perfect marriage most women envy.
She's beautiful, s...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
When I wake up it's already shiny and bright, the early October sun adamantly piercing through the window drapes. My skin shudders as cold air blankets my skin, and that damn eerie feeling of being watched returns.
I rise up abruptly, panting. Lately I've become overly sensitive to everything and I feel like someone's right here in my room, ready to grab me and do whatever evil intentions they have toward me.
I cast my glance aside and my nose crinkle in disgust.
"Morning, butterfly." It's a very familiar voice.
Relief washes over me.
"What the hell?" I murmur, waving away the smoke of cigar wafting in my nose. "I hate that, Patrick. At least do your shit outside."
"Oh. My bad," he replies nonchalantly while straightening himself at the corner of the bed, eyes on my upper body that's covered with nothing but a lacy bra.
Instinctively, I pull the duvet up to my neck so as to distract his lustful stare.
"What are you doing here?" I croak while sitting up.
Wrong question. He lives here.
Instead of answering me, he plainly stares at me, a creepy gleam in his salient silver-gray eyes that search for aunty visible nakedness in my body.
"I'm talking to you? Aren't you supposed to be in Russia or whatever? Caring so little that I could be dead by now?" I yell at him, very frustrated inside.
Unknown people have been tracking me down like a bounty worthy millions. The gunshot memories from last night makes my breath heavy, and the sight of one fearless man fighting against a group of gangsters replays in my mind.
What if he wasn't there to protect me? My chest heaves as fear engulf me all over again. But I'm safe now. He saved me once again.
Patrick stands up, still dressed in his neat white suit with a black unbuttoned shirt, his hairy chest half-exposed in a senseless yet eye-catching design, and perhaps the twenty-years-old me would be enthralled to just jump on him and rip his shirt off.
Not anymore.
"I never get tired watching my beautiful wife," Patrick says, his smile filled with burning desire that I can read like a large billboard on the way home. "As stubborn as she may be, because I clearly told her to wait until I sort everything," he adds, his tone angered in milliseconds as he snobbishly takes another puff of his large, Cuban cigar.
I roll my eyes at him, exhausted. Sort everything? Just how exactly?
"I'm not in the mood, Patrick. Feed that nonsense to anyone interested to hear." I start moving from the bed, grabbing the duvet with me.
"What? You don't think I can find those bastards? You don't trust me?" he quizzes.
"Just leave me alone," I snap, even though I know he can do it as long as it has everything to do with him in the first place.
