Rule 7 : Rage

CHAPTER 52 : Under His Thrall.

DR MARTINI'S POV

I sat in the dim light of my room, staring at the cracks in the wall as if they might offer answers. Each breath caught in my chest, shallow and strained, my fingers twisting in my lap, restless and searching for comfort.

His words played on a loop, a dull ache that refused to fade. He had always kept me at arm's length—just close enough to feel his warmth before leaving me in the cold.

The silence here made my skin prickle, as if the very walls were mocking the bitterness that welled up in my throat like bile. I ran my hand through my hair, tugging harder than I should, as if the pain could drown out the shame creeping up my neck, heating my face.

His eyes—they stayed with me, locked in my memory, always distant, always just out of reach. Like trying to find meaning in smoke, they drifted away whenever I tried to hold on.

A knot formed in my throat, my heartbeat steady but too loud. What if this was it? His way of peeling me away piece by piece, until I was nothing but a ghost in the room?

My gaze shifted to the door, expecting it to swing open, but there was only the sound of my own shaky breaths. He hadn't shown himself in days. Only Hardin came, slipping my necessities through the gap, a reminder that I was here... and he wasn't.

Even now, I couldn't shake the memory of that visit. He kept referring to me, 'his wife', as if clinging to the title was his only refuge from a looming dread.

I felt like a ghost in my own room, left behind while he wandered the city—each place he visited a mystery to me. Despite being a doctor, I felt out of place, and coming to Paris hadn't changed that. I was just a shadow, an accessory he kept by his side without real connection.

"Why am I even here?" I wondered, my heart heavy with the weight of it all. The shame was so suffocating that I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes. I felt trapped, imprisoned by rules he either couldn't or wouldn't break. Was he a loyal dog, or a masochist, enjoying my silent suffering?

The phone buzzed, a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me. I snatched it up, my heart pounding. The familiar, dreaded name flashed across the screen. I opened the email, my fingers trembling slightly.

The words on the screen seemed to slice through me, each one sharper than the last. My chest tightened, breaths growing uneven as I read the impersonal greeting.

"Martini."

"I will be leaving for a discreet location. I cannot provide a definite time for my return. Take care of your health; the guards will attend to your needs."

I stared at the final line, "Lord of the Shaque," my grip tightening on the phone until my knuckles blanched. It felt like a leash being pulled taut, reminding me just how trapped I was under his thrall.

A burning sensation pulsed through my veins, my hand trembling as I fought the urge to hurl the phone across the room.

I smirked, my jaw tightening as I raked my eyes over the stiff, bored guards. Their eyes were glazed, bodies as rigid as statues. They wouldn't lift a finger to help, not even if I begged.

He had stationed them there—his silent watchdogs. I toyed with the idea of dismissing them, the illusion of power dancing just out of reach. But each time I grasped for it, it slipped away, leaving nothing but the hollow ache where control should have been.

The shrill beep of my phone startled me. I glanced at the unfamiliar number, a cold sweat breaking out on my palms. Hesitantly, I answered, "Hello?"

"Hey there, babe," a familiar voice purred.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. "Who is this?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

The name "Claudia" cut through the static of the call. My eyes widened, and my jaw dropped open. I leaned back against the wall, a hot rush spreading through my abdomen.

"Yeah, it's me," Claudia's voice was light, almost teasing.

I blinked, unable to stop the grin spreading across my face. The tightness in my shoulders eased, like butter melting in the sun. I stammered, "Clau....dia?"

"It's really you!" I managed, wiping a grin off my face.

"I know it's been a while since I called," she purred.

A smile crept across my face, so wide it felt like it might crack my cheeks. "It feels like forever."

"Stop with the drama," she chuckled. "When will you be back home?"

For a moment, my mind raced, I was left fumbling for words. "Ummm..."

She giggled, "Good news!" her infectious lilt playing over the phone. "I've moved to Italy and started a new job. Not exactly the white-collar gig you always imagined for me," she added, her laughter bubbling through the receiver.

I had always imagined Claudia in a tidy office, sorting figures with a calculator in hand. Her refusal to follow that route had been a puzzle. She craved independence and rejected the standard white-collar path.

It was a notion I hadn't truly grasped until my own experiences with the Shaque revealed that financial freedom could take many forms.

"Wow, that's fantastic," I said, my voice tinged with genuine surprise. "What's the job like?"

She snickered, a playful edge in her voice. "I knew you'd be curious. Since dancing's always been my thing, I've taken a job at a bar. Soon, I'll be both independent and richer than you."

A chill crept into my chest, and I could feel the warmth in my cheeks fading away. The smile I tried to maintain felt brittle, faltering under her words, which stung like a slap to the face.