From A Harlot To A Princess
Written By:
Cage Thompson
Copyright © 2018 Cage Thompson
Published by T’Ann Marie Presents, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written consent of the publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locals are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents are entirely coincidental.
“We are born with our father's names. We are not responsible for their failures. We are responsible for what they made us believe in. That is our only obligation. And it is even then a choice which we may sometimes be wise to ignore.”
—Warren Eyster
To those who were ever abused; there is hope.
Chapter One
“You and I will always be unfinished business.”
—Unknown
CARAMEL, WELL-MANICURED fingers tightened around the Italian-leather-covered steering wheel, as Rochelle turned the shiny, onyx Benz into the VIP space. Turning the key, she heard the slight purr of the car’s engine come to a stop, but the keychain kept on jangling. Releasing a pent-up breath, she used a slender finger to caress the photo on the keychain. “I’ll be home early for your birthday next year, Lisa; I promise,” she whispered, before removing the key from the ignition and releasing her seatbelt. She needed to close this part of her life so that she could focus on her daughter.
More like you need to wipe this whole part of your life clean, her conscience reminded her candidly.
Now is not the best time, she shot back mentally, before moving to open the door.
The blazing New York sun, stroked smooth, toned legs, which were encased in fire-engine-red, studded pumps at the feet, with matching blood-red nails. A five-foot-eight-inch body hugged by a designer, jersey silk, white, knee-length dress and a broad red belt that caused the waist to look as if it could be encompassed by one hand, slid from the vehicle. Long, chestnut hair, curled around her features and stretched down her slender back. It framed a face fit for Vogue, with bee-stung, plump, red lips that highlighted her flawless skin.
The sun caressed her whole physique, drawing unwanted attention. Rochelle straightened her shoulders, closed the stark, black door of her car, pressing her lips together dispassionately, as the catcalls broke the silence.
“Hey, mama; can I grab your number?” One questioned brazenly, and she shot him a killer stare, to which he groaned and threw up his hands in disappointment.
One whistled as she bent to collect her purse from the back, passenger seat, and she fought the uncomfortable blush that rose up her cheeks. Raising her chin, she ran a nervous hand down the skirt of her dress, unconsciously displaying the broadness of her curvaceous hips, before daintily hanging the bag off her forearm.
Her anxiety didn’t come from the attention that she was getting, because she was used to that; that did not faze her. It was the task that she had on hand that had her heart racing a mile a minute. Ignoring the appraising eyes of the men and women moving around her, she took a breath and tried focusing on the impending task.
One step at a time, right? She coaxed herself; trying to stave off the jitters of fear.
What seemed like endless legs, stretched skillfully to eat up the space between the VIP parking and the entrance of the building; the sun, in the meantime, was kissing every hairless plane that it could find. Continuing to ignore the whistles and calls, she stepped into Thorpe Inc.’s foyer, and headed for the elevators, instead of the front desks. She didn’t need directions; she knew this building as intimately as she knew her body.
Yet, somehow, you’ve always managed to avoid seeing him, the devil on her shoulder reminded coyly, and she could feel the beginnings of a tightness forming in her gut.
She swallowed apprehensively, and hastened her movement in an attempt to push her thoughts away. With each step, the jersey silk slid seductively against her ample rear, as the glass doors closed behind her. Her blood-red stilettos stood out against the building’s dark, marble floor interior. The plain black and brown suits and dresses that the office workers had paused long enough to put on before they had shown up to another long day of work, were easily outshined by her bright colors, drawing even more eyes.
You’re attracting too much attention, belle, an internal voice warned.
She always does, came a swift mental reply.
But before he’d never been on the same continent as her when she comes and goes, her conscience reminded. This time it’s different. She needs to be in and out without so much as causing someone to draw an additional breath—
Well, it’s too late for that, because there goes one already drooling, Lust chuckled sweetly, enjoying the attention.
Rochelle shot the man a crossed look and kept on moving. She knew that many of the employees were already wondering if she was the next slut for one of the high powered guys upstairs, and had shown up provokingly early for the lunch date. The looks on their faces were enough to tell. With a designer face and body, Rochelle had received snide looks and comments often enough to know when to leave it be and when to assert her authority. However, right now she felt like doing the former; she had no time to waste. There was a late evening flight with her name on it.
So, with two fingers to her forehead, she acknowledged the security guard in a small salute, and received a slight smile. Once upon a time, he had shadowed her body instead of this building.
Her eyes darkened as she sashayed across the marble to the elevator; memories forcing themselves to the front. Once, walking into this building had meant everything to her.
It still does, an abstract voice commented; it’s just that, once upon a time, it was to meet the only man you thought could hold your heart; now, it is to pave the way to becoming a better mother to your daughter.
Straightening her shoulders as for a battle, she unconsciously thrust forward her breasts, and caught the attention of more males.
I am not ashamed of my body… I am not ashamed of my body… I am not ashamed of my body! She chanted mentally.
Not anymore—, her conscience began.
He taught you that, Lust reminded her cruelly.
He was good for something after all then, the devil laughed.
Inhaling, she tried to push away the past, in order to wrap her head around her task ahead, but instantly regretted it. The expensive colognes of the suits walking to and from the elevators wrapped around her, and she swallowed unsteadily as memories crashed into her unceremoniously. She needed to get out of there, and fast, if she didn’t want to remember. Stepping into the elevator cart, she pressed the floor number and stood back as the doors slid closed. She forced a smile to a friendly staff member as the elevator began its ascent, gathering and dispensing its occupants at every floor, until she alone reached the top floor.
“Miss Jones.” Morris’ secretary acknowledged her, as she swept passed her with barely a nod.
With slender hands, she pushed open the heavy, mahogany doors, and stepped into the conference room.
“Bypassing my PA this time, Miss Jones? You must be in a hurry,” Morris muttered, his baritone bouncing off the walls and drawing her attention to the man.
“Still spying on me, Thorpe?” She mocked, and ran a finger over a black, glossy, probably too comfortable, executive chair, at the end of the very long table.
Probably his, the devil teased her. She snatched her hand away at the thought.
“I won’t admit that I’ve gotten over that fetish, darling,” he chuckled, and ros
e to his feet to greet her, reclaiming her attention.
“You’re still as gorgeous as ever,” she muttered, as her lips brushed his cleanly shaven, lightly perfumed jaw. “And how’s the wife?” She asked, as he pulled back, studying her.
“She is as happy as ever, and wondering when you’re going to issue your wedding invitation,” he mumbled, and looked at her sternly.
In response to his statement, Rochelle looked over Morris’ shoulder, and through the floor-to-ceiling glass window with a weighted sigh. Love wouldn’t come to her like it had for him and Stacey. She had had her chance, and she wasn’t going to get it again.
It only came once in a lifetime; right? Her mind questioned the universe before her gaze flickered back to his chiseled face. One great love and all that, she muttered inaudibly.
“I don’t think I will ever get married, Morris, and you know that,” she said, lightly, even though she was feeling anything but lightness. “No one wants an overachieving, single—”
“Carter is back,” Morris stated, cutting her off. He watched her stiffen, a shutter falling over her expression. She was obviously arming herself.
“Ten years too late,” she whispered, looking as if she was looking right through him, and into another life. In some ways, she was.
The clearing of a throat drew her out of her reverie, and she cringed before turning. “Martin,” she acknowledged, before kissing his down bent cheek.
“I see you’re having another heavy heart-to-heart with my twin; what’s new?” He muttered, and rolled his eyes.
“The liquidation of this end of the Hummingbird Club,” she stated, skillfully sidestepping his opening to delve into her past. She drew a deep breath, waiting for their objections to her statement, but their words had her tension quickly deflating.
“Finally,” Morris sighed, and ushered her to a chair before taking one.
Rochelle looked at him shocked. “You actually want to dismantle HC?” She questioned, a frown pleating her forehead.
What’s wrong with you, girl? Reason questioned. This is what you want!
“For some time now, but I wasn’t sure if you were ready to let it go,” Morris stated, as both she and Martin took their seats.
“Why?” She questioned.
“After what happened to Mandy, I wanted nothing to do with it. She was scared for months before she even trusted her fiancé enough to go near her. What if it had been my wife?” He whispered, and Rochelle cringed; he was right. The dangers for the women and men were increasing steadily. “Too many people are scarred from all this, and some will never find true happiness,” he finished softly, holding her gaze; his words piercing her deeper than any sharp object could. His voice held a host of undercurrents that only a fool could miss. She was definitely included in the last statement, and she didn’t like it.
“Carter left me in a coma, Morris, it wasn’t the other way around!” She snapped.
“Maybe, if you had given him a chance to explain, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” he counteracted.
The same old argument for the past four years, she sighed internally.
Rochelle swallowed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “What has happened has happened, and I cannot change the outcome now. I have more important things to do than to cry over spilled milk,” she stated, and handed him a file from her briefcase.
Without reading it, he flipped to the pages that required his signature. “Is that what you’re planning on telling your daughter in the future?” He muttered, and handed Martin the folder.
“How the fuck do you know about Lisa?” She demanded, straightening in her chair as her muscles tensed, on alert.
“You aren’t hiding her, Rochelle, and she looks too much like her father to miss,” he stated with a shrug, causing heat to seep into her caramel cheeks.
“You had no right to dig in my personal life, Morris!” She snapped, fire flashing through her eyes.
“It’s because of my interference that Carter hasn’t found out about Alisa. I’m the one who manipulates the information that his PI hands to him at the end of every quarter for the past ten years,” he stated, and watched her face pale.
“Why?” She whispered, through trembling lips, the word barely audible. It was Morris’s sheer proximity that caused it to be audible to him.
“Because whosoever smashed your car ten years ago, was trying to kill him. The driver was long dead before that trailer hit you, and there was evidence of another occupant. That person is still at large, and he wants you to be protected at all cost,” he explained.
“That still doesn’t give him the right to leave when I was still unconscious, and later, without communication,” she stated coldly, and rose to her feet after placing the folder in her briefcase.
“Something urgent had come up, and he had to leave and—” Rochelle rose her hand to cut off whatever else he had to say.
“I don’t need to hear it, Morris; whatever Carter and I had is long gone- finished; understand? That part of my life has been filed away.” She stated firmly, and kissed his cheek, before starting to turn to Martin, only to freeze mid-turn.
Every nerve ending in her body stood at attention, her nipples contracted into hard, firm balls, and her vulva began salivating. Only one man could ever touch her beyond her physical barriers and make her do things that she had never imagined she could. Her body knew him like no other, and it responded no differently. It was like the ten years that had been between them had never been. As if it was merely yesterday, and that made her fucking mad.
“What we had really meant that little to you?” Carter questioned, his baritone washing over her, sending a shiver throughout her body. Then something clicked in her brain, and she just knew what Morris had been up to; this wasn’t coincidental.
“You were stalling me,” she muttered, bitterly, ignoring Carter’s comment; her amber eyes clashing with Morris’s blue ones as he shrugged.
“It’s not like I had any choice; it was either seeing you both happy or being skinned alive,” Morris stated, flippantly, causing her anger to rise. His choice had been obvious from his tone of voice before he had even listed the scanty choices; he had never planned to consider any other option.
“Fuck that! I’d never be happy with Carter, broken trust is like shattered glass. He left when I needed him most!” She hissed, grabbing her briefcase.
“He is standing right here, Rochelle and if you had allowed me to explain, that trust would not have been broken,” Carter stated as she walked to the heavy doors.
“Fuck you, Carter! You had ten years, and you never attempted to explain then!” She spat, and yanked open the doors in an unladylike fashion. She gasped as the doors slammed closed, and her body fell flush against them with a jerk. She still couldn’t understand how a man his size could walk across the floor without making a single sound. She clenched her teeth, dragging in rapid, short breaths, that caused her chest to rise and fall precipitously, as his cologne wrapped deftly around her.
“I’d rather be fucking you, Rochelle,” he whispered, his breath fanning her ear. “Masturbation doesn’t do it for me like you do. Trust me, I know.”
Rochelle curled her fists against the door, as her chest tightened, along with her breasts, causing her to breathe even more heavily. Images upon images, flashed through her mind, causing her to curse him internally. He wasn’t even touching her, and yet, her body could feel the heat of his. Oh, how she craved to sink into his warmth, but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t.
She swallowed, as his aura wrapped around her, reminding her of the many times he had explored her body and brought her to heights that she hadn’t even known existed. The sex in the club, introduction to the Mile High Club, and so much more fluttered behind her lids like an old, reel movie. Her fists tightened some more. All that high-on-ecstasy life, had all come crashing down when the trailer had slammed into her side of the Jaguar all those years ago.
There hadn’t been any like him b
efore. There was sure as hell none following. She hadn’t been able to let another man touch her afterward; weird in her type of business, she knew.
Rochelle swallowed nervously because it was way too easy to fall into that trap again.
Just remember Lisa, her inner conscience murmured, and she found her voice.
“That’s never going to happen again, Carter,” she whispered.
“Give me another chance,” he whispered back, in the same husky tone as her, stepping closer.
“Where have you been for the past ten years?” She demanded breathlessly, as her sanity began slipping once more. Her fists tightened as his large hands covered her small, delicate ones, causing her nails to dig into her palms, and she hissed out a breath at the pain.
“I tried to contact you, but your father said that you wanted nothing to do with me. After a few tries, I stopped, thinking that maybe it wasn’t yet our time, and it was better I stood back and protected you from afar, until I could find my way back to you again,” he stated softly, his accent caressing her eardrums. She almost, just almost, wanted to believe him.
But his words sounded so unfamiliar, yet somehow, something which her cruel father would partake of. She frowned, losing her concentration as his words sank in, giving him the opportunity to intertwine his fingers with hers. Instantly, he began creating small consecutive circles on the back of her hands, causing her to lose a bit more focus with each smoothly completed, concentric ring.
“He never told me that you called,” she whispered, breathlessly, gruesome images flashing through her mind. She had begged her father to contact him more than once, especially after she had found out about the baby, but she had only ended up with more bruises than what had been left from the accident. She struggled to force back a tear, as she remembered how Carter had once bathed her after one of her father’s beatings. She bit her lip as her eyes closed at the fierce reminder of how much he used to cherish her body, and instantly she regretted it, as long ago stored images of what had happened after the bathing, appeared behind her lids. “Fuck,” she groaned, and pressed towards him, as heat pooled in her abdomen, instead of shifting away as she ought to.
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