If I’m Hades, she’s Persephone—a dual deity with both light and dark elements.
I’ve seen the light side. But today? With that little smirk she gave me in the dining room? She’s embracing her dark side. Succumbing to me.
I both adore and fear her for it.
She expects me to think she stays asleep while I do deplorable things to her body? That aggressively fucking someone wouldn’t rouse them from sleep?
She doesn’t have parasomnia like I do. She wouldn’t be able to sleep through it.
Baby girl, I know exactly what game you’re playing.
And I wasn’t prepared for how I’d feel to see the bruises around her next.
Pride.
Not for hurting her, but for branding her withmyhand.
In a way, it feels like she belongs to me, even if we’re still pretending it’s a secret.
The bedroom door opens and Francesca walks out wearing a fitted black dress with thin straps and buttons all the way down the front. The curly tendrils of her hair still frame her face, but she’s covered her neck bruises with makeup. She doesn’t look at me as she walks back into the bathroom. A minute later, I hear the blow-dryer turn on and pretend to work. At a quarter to six, she exits the bathroom—again without looking in my direction—and closes the bedroom door.
My palms sweat as I type.
She seemed fine this morning, but she’s been acting strange ever since I sent that email to her. Perhaps I went too far, or perhaps she’s decided she’s had enough of whatever the fuck this game we’re playing is. Maybe I flew too close to the sun. For all I know, the cops are going to knock on my door at any moment and she’s going to accuse me of raping her in her sleep. I mean… isn’t that what I’m doing?
It’s hard to say—especially since I’m not actually conscious.
But I could’ve said something that first night. I could’ve apologized, could’ve taken more measures not to do it again. After all, I put myself in this predicament knowing it could happen.
Hopingit would happen.
After two years of working with Francesca, I’d constructed a psychological profile on her.
And there’s one thing that’s always been evident: her need to win any competition, and her absolute desire for a family. Being born to a single mom, she craves a family of her own. I know about the stillborn—I’d requested her medical files when she was hired. I know about her ex-fiancé. I know this job—and me—are temporary in her book.
And I’d decided pretty early on that I wasn’t going to accept that.
I wanted to be a permanent part of her life.
What Francesca doesn’t realize is that I’m perfect for her.
She’s independent, reliable, and strong-willed. She’s brave, feisty, yet soft and warm when it matters. We are polar opposites—she drinks her coffee with more sugar than a donut, and I drink mine black. Her body is full of soft curves, and mine is lean and hard. She presents herself as unflappable, but she sews blankets for babies in her free time.
I don’t want someone who will cave when I say something with a stern tone. I want someone who will call me on my shit—something Francesca has been doing, whether she realizes it or not, for two years.
I don’t believe in soulmates. I went to medical school, and the shit I’ve seen both with my mother and my patients over the years has proven that no such thing exists.
But if they did—if they do—Francesca would be mine.
Of course, the conference was well-thought-out. I’d pretended not to need her help, but at the last minute asked her to accompany me. I knew she’d drop everything to please me. She’d proven herself a thousand times over these past two years. It’s why I pay her a small fortune every month.
In her mind, I wouldn’t ask unless I absolutely needed the help.
And she hated me—hatesme. Perhaps less so now, but it’s still there.
I’ve been using that to my benefit, because hate isso veryclose to love. She hates me, which makes her think of me all the time—at work, outside of work, every time she picks up her phone, every Monday morning…
She isminewithout even realizing it.
