"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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Note: Originally I was not going to upload Dakota's pov coz those chapters belong to a different book. As Dakota is a very complicated character, and one can't fully understand him from just a chapter or two. Given the complexity of his personalities, he deserves an entire book dedicated to his pov.
However, since many of the readers wanted a sneak peek inside his mind, I uploaded a few chapters here. So for now, let's pretend we know nothing about his mental illness as Emara figuring him out and Dakota explaining in his own words would make a better unfolding of events.
Now let's get into Mr. Black's bedroom!
Point of View: Emara Stone
*Buzz*
I feel vibrations running through my arm, causing me to wake up from my deep sleep. My eyelids feel heavy as I raise my hand and glance at the source of disturbance.
I blink an eye at the harsh white glow of my watch as it shows: 10:05 AM
Fuck!
Groggily, I rise up and suddenly I feel like I am thrown from a Five-Star room to barely a One-Star room. And then it hit me- This isn't my room, but Dakota's.
Suddenly, flashes of the previous night flood back in- Red room of chaos, the panic state, his dreadful nightmare and my adrenaline-fueled attempts to calm him down.
Instantly, the dreaminess in my eyes evaporates and I search for him, only to be met with the emptiness of plain four walls.
Where is he, and why didn't he wake me up?
Fascinatingly, I look around the mysterious bedroom of a mysterious man.
There are no photographs or paintings on the walls, and definitely no Andrew Tate portraits like I had predicted. No furniture, no luscious carpet to walk on, nor a human size mirror to get ready, just a mattress left on the floor.
It doesn't even look like a room, but a confined prison.
Which is oddly strange..
Because my room is designed with grandeur and I assumed his room would be like a lavish stay in Burj Khalifa, but in reality it is just an empty shell.
Why is he living like this, when he can afford all the luxuries in the world?
A sharp chill runs through my spine as I keep my foot on the marble floor, feeling its icy coldness. The room is oddly chilling, almost freezing like a December night, and I quickly wrap the blanket around my body for some April warmth.
Heading towards his bathroom, I mentally prepare for the mess but surprisingly, I am met with stark cleanliness. There is no speck of dust on his bathroom floor, nor any evidence of scattered pills.
