"I hate you." My voice cracks as I tell him.
His feet stop at the door.
I clutch the bedsheet tightly around my chest as he turns around with an emotionless face.
"Then there will be a lot of hate fucking between us." A smirk curve his lips as his g...
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I stamp my feet and walk down the stairs of the barbarian king.
My eyes run through his weird paintings and it somehow made me angrier. They all have nice golden borders and prolly don't wake up with a splash or spank.
I still can't believe he would do that.
Suddenly the marble disappears under my feet and blue water with fishes flow in a line like river under the solid glass I am standing on.
This arse has an under-floor aquarium!
And his drawing room has more drawings on the wall that I have ever seen in an art gallery. This man is living a life I couldn't even imagine with my creative head.
God! I hate him even more.
I hear some foreign dialects and I follow the sound. I pass the long corridor and finally see him draped in his expensive black suit, looking as tall as the god of death.
I watch from behind as Dakota gives money to the old man while whispering something softly, like sorry.
Look at him! Look at this bastard. Trying to act all humble and apologetic. I grit my teeth, knowing a servant is getting treated better than me.
The old man gives a butler nod and exits from the back door. Dakota picks his plate from the platform and turns around, finding me beside the fridge. Like gravity, his eyes drop to my clothes and a frown climbs up to his cruel forehead.
"What?" I ask in the air as I walk around the counter with a nose as high as my brows.
I ignore him take a deep breath of agitation, followed by his fury. "I am forty-five minutes late, for the first time in my life. I missed my meeting. I had to call Pablo to make breakfast, which was supposed to be your work."
"Maybe if you didn't send all of your helpers on holiday, you wouldn't be late." I tell him as I pull out a high stool from underneath the counter and hop my spanked ass on it. Gosh! I hate him so much.
"You are not my wife, Miss Stone." His voice sour, just like his face.
"Do not think you will sit here looking pretty whole day while I'll go work my ass off. You will cook for me, clean for me, and come for me, if I allow you." He says every word with an unflinched authorithy.
And I hated it.
I hate how he proclaims he has some kind of right on me. Like he owns every bone of my skeleton.
"Fine." I spat annoyingly. "And I am not your wife. So, do not yell at me again."
"Fine." He growls and walks away with his sour face to the couch opposite to the counter and face the television. News flood in the background, and he focuses on his breakfast, that he was yelling for since the sunrise.
How can people eat so early in the morning? I can still taste my toothpaste.
I look down on my plate and my brain zones out completely. As if my cassette is stuck on his words 'looking pretty' and runs in loop. Do I really look pretty?
